
WORKS 

OF 

ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D. 



DISCOURSES 



o N 



HUMAN NATURE 



HUMAN LIFE, 



AND THE 



NATURE OF RELIGION. 



BY 

ORYILLE DEWEY, D.D. 

PASTOB 07 THE CHURCH OF THE MESSIAH, IN NSW YORK. 



NEW YORK: 
C. S. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY. 

boston: 
j. h. francis, 123 washington-street 
1 847. 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846. 
BY C. S. FRANCIS & CO. 
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New Y«% 



LC control *u«toer 



PRINTED BY 
MUX ROE AND FRANCIS, 
BOSTON. 




«ap96 031446 



PREFACE. 



I have collected into these Volumes, most of the Ser- 
mons and Essays that have been published with my name ; 
and have added some Sermons not before printed, together 
with Articles from Reviews, and Occasional Discourses. 
A new arrangement is made, in order to bring the Dis- 
courses under certain heads. The title of the Volume 
first published, " Discourses on Various Subjects," is drop- 
ped. The first Series in this Edition, " On Human Nature," 
embraces several of those Discourses ; others are omit- 
ted ; and others, placed under another Head. Discourses 
on " Human Life," follow ; and then, a number of Dis- 
courses, for which I could find no more definite title than 
" TheNature of Religion." In the first Sermon of the suc- 
ceeding series, on " Commerce and Business," I have at- 
tempted by a revision of the Argument, to reply to an objec- 
tion sometimes urged against its main doctrine, with regard 
to the use of superior knowledge, power or opportunity. I 
have met with those who argued thus : " We have a right 
to take every advantage of each other ; it is perfectly honest 
to do so, because we have agreed to do so. It is a matter of 
compact, whose chances and risks we mutually agree to 
take." Now I maintain that the general moral policy of 



vi 



PREFACE. 



trade foroias such compact. The remainder of the Second 
Volume is occupied by a Miscellaneous Collection of Dis- 
courses on Politics and Society, and by reprints of Reviews 
and Occasional Sermons and Addresses. The Third Vo- 
lume, or the one which is to occupy that place in the Edi- 
tion, is already published — as it has been some time out of 
print, and was ca"ed for — under the title of " Discourses 
and Reviews upon Questions in Controversial Theology and 
Practical Religion." My apology for these details is, that 
they seemed to be necessary to explain to those who have 
purchased my publications, the character of the present 
Edition. 

Let me add, that no attempt is made at a full discussion 
of any of the subjects embraced in these Volumes. I sup- 
pose that a Treatise is not usually expected in a Volume 
of Sermons. Pulpit Discourses are, from the nature of the 
case, more like separate Essays, than successive portions 
of a regular Treatise. 

I have now said all that is necessary, perhaps, in a Pre- 
face ; and yet, in sending forth a revised Edition of my 
Publications, I am disposed to add one or two remarks. 

I have sometimes regretted that it has been my fortune 
to communicate with the Public through Sermons. I doubt 
whether there is any one vehicle of communication — Art, 
Literature, Poetry, Fiction, the Journal, or the Newspaper 
— in the way of which public opinion has thrown so many 
obstructions and difficulties. In the first place, it has laid 
a jealous restriction upon the topics of the Sermon, the 
style, the modes of illustration — the whole manly freedom 
of utterance. In the next place, having thus helped to 
make it tame and common-place, it has branded what is 
partly its own work, with that fatal epithet, dull. In fact. 



PREFACE. 



vii 



the Sermon, the printed Sermon, has scarcely any recog- 
nised place among* the great and noble arts of expression 
or communication. It is not appreciated as such. It has 
not the stimulus either of praise or blame from any high 
court of Literary Criticism. 

I do not say, I am far from saying, that all this is the 
fault of the public, or of public opinion. It is the fault of 
the preacher rather ; it is the error essentially of our reli- 
gious ideas and feelings. In this view I know of no more 
significant fact connected with the history of Christianity 
than this, that the Sermon should in all ages have been pro- 
verbially dull. I confess that I am stung to indignation and 
shame at the bitter taunt implied in it, and would willingly 
take upon my hands all the disabilities and difficulties of 
this kind of communication, if I could give the feeblest de- 
monstration, that it is not altogether deserved. The Essay- 
ist, Foster, says : " Might not all the Sermon-books in the 
English language, after the exception of three or four dozen 
volumes, be committed to the fire without any cause of re- 
gret ?" I am not bold enough to expect that these volumes 
of mine could escape the doom ; it would be a solace to me 
if I could believe, that they might stimulate others to do 
better, and that, from their ashes, something should arise, 
that would be worthy to live. 



CONTENTS. 



Discourses on Human Nature. 

PAGE, 



I. ON HUMAN" NATURE, ------ 9 

II. THE SAME SUBJECT, ------ 28 

III. ON THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES TO HUMAN NATURE, 41 

IV. ON THE ADAPTATION WHICH RELIGION, TO BE TRUE 

AND USEFUL, SHOULD HAVE TO HUMAN NATURE, 56 

V. THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO HUMAN NATURE, 71 

VI. THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND THE ANSWER TO IT, 88 

VII. HUMAN NATURE CONSIDERED AS A GROUND FOR 

THANKSGIVING, - - - - - - 103 

Discourses on Human Life. 

VIII. THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE, - - 123 

IX. THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL, - - 137 

X. LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND 

VIRTUE, ------- - 154 

XI. LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT, - 169 

XII. ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE,J - - 1S4 

XIII. ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE, ----- 198 

XIV. ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE, ----- 212 
XV. ON THE VALUE OF LIFE, ----- 227 

XVI. LIFE'S CONSOLATION IN VIEW OF DEATH, - 241 

XVII. THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF 

CHRIST, - -- -- - - - 255 

XVIII. ON RELIGION, AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE, 276 

XIX ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE, - - - - 2S5 

XX. THE VOICES OF THE DEAD, - - - - 306 

Discourses on the Nature of Religion. 

XXI. THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS, ANP 

WITH A GOOD LIFE, - - - - - 322 

XXII. THE SAME SUBJECT, - - - - - - 3i3 

XXIII. THE SAME S1TBJECT, ------ 365 

XXIV. SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME, - 379 



DISCOURSES. 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 
I. 

WHAT IS MAN, THAT THOU ART MINDFUL OF HIM? AND THE SON OF MAN 
THAT THOU VISITEST HIM 1 FOR THOU HAST MADE HIM A LITTLE LOWER 
THAN THE ANGELS, AND HAST CROWNED HIM WITH GLORY AND HONOUR. 

— Psalm yiii. 4 ; 5. 

You will observe, my brethren, that in these words 
two distinct, and in a degree opposite views are given, 
of human nature. It is represented on the one hand 
as weak and low, and yet on the other, as lofty and 
strong. At one moment it presents itself to the in- 
spired writer as poor, humble, depressed, and almost 
unworthy of the notice of its Maker. But in the transi- 
tion of a single sentence, we find him contemplating 
this same being, man, as exalted, glorious and almost 
angelic. " When I consider thy heavens, the work of 
thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast 
ordained," he says, " what is man that thou art mind- 
ful of him ?" And yet, he adds, " thou hast made 
him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned 
him with glory and honour." 

But do not these contrasted statements make up, in 
fact, the only true view of human nature ? Are they 
not conformable to the universal sense of mankind, 
and to the whole tenor and spirit of our religion ? 
Whenever the human character is portrayed in colours 



10 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



altogether dark, or altogether bright; whenever the 
misanthrope pours out his scorn upon the wickedness 
and baseness of mankind, or the enthusiast lavishes 
his admiration upon their virtues, do we not always 
feel that there needs to be some qualification; that 
there is something to be said on the other side ? 

Nay more ; do not all the varying representations 
of human nature imply their opposites? Does not 
virtue itself imply, that sins and sinful passions are 
struggled with, and overcome ? And on the contraiy, 
does not sin in its very nature imply that there are 
high and sacred powers, capacities and affections, 
which it violates ? 

In this view it appears to me, that all unqualified 
disparagement as well as praise of human nature, 
carries w r ith it its own refutation ; and it is to this 
point that 1 wish to invite your particular attention in 
the following discourse. Admitting all that can be 
asked on this subject by the strongest assertors of 
human depravity ; admitting every thing, certainly, 
that can be stated as a matter of fact ; admitting that 
men are as bad as they are said to be, and substan 
tially believing it too, I shall argue that the conclusion 
to be drawn is entirely the reverse of that which 
usually is drawn. I shall argue, that the most stren- 
uous, the most earnest and indignant objections 
against human nature imply the strongest concessions 
to its constitutional worth. I say then, and repeat, 
that objection here carries with it its own refutation ; 
that the objector concedes much, very much to human 
nature, by the very terms with which he inveighs 
against it. 

It is not my sole purpose, however, to present any 
abstract or polemic argument. Rather let me attempt 
to offer some general and just views of human nature ; 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



11 



and for this purpose rather than for the sake of con- 
troversy, let me pass in brief review before you, some 
of the specific and disparaging opinions, that have 
prevailed in the world concerning it ; those for in- 
stance, of the philosopher and the theologian. 

In doing this, my purpose is to admit that much of 
what they say, is true ; but to draw from it an infer- 
ence quite different from theirs. I would admit on 
one hand, that there is much evil in the human heart, 
but at the same time, I would balance this view, and 
blend it with others that claim to be brought into the 
account. On the one hand, I would admit the ob- 
jection that there is much and mournful evil in the 
world ; but, on the other, I would prevent it from 
pressing on the heart, as a discouraging and dead 
weight of reprobation and obloquy. 

It may appear to you that the opinions which I 
have selected for our present consideration are, each 
of them, brought into strange company ; and yet 
they have an affinity which may not at once be sus- 
pected. It is singular indeed, that we find in the 
same ranks and waging the same war against all 
human self-respect, the most opposite descriptions of 
persons ; the most religious with the most irreligious, 
the most credulous with the most sceptical. If any 
man supposes that it is his superior goodness or purer 
faith, which leads him to think so badly of his fellow- 
men and of their very nature, he needs to be remind- 
ed that vicious and dissolute habits almost invariably 
and unerringly lead to the same result. The man 
who is taking the downward way, with almost every 
step, you will find thinks worse of his nature and his 
species ; till he concludes, if he can, that he was made 
only for sensual indulgence, and that all idea of a 
future, intellectual, and immortal existence, is a dream. 



12 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



And so if any man thinks that it is owing to his spir- 
ituality and heavenly mindedness, that he pronounces 
the world so utterly corrupt, a mere mass of selfish- 
ness and deceit ; he may be admonished that nobody 
so thoroughly agrees with him as the man of the 
world, the shrewd, over-reaching and knavish practi- 
cer on the weakness or the wickedness of his fellows. 
And in the same way, the strict and high-toned theo- 
logian, as he calls himself, may unexpectedly find 
himself in company with the sceptical and scornful 
philosopher. No men have ever more bitterly decried 
and vilified human nature, than the Infidel philoso- 
phers of the last century. They contended that man 
was too mean and contemptible a creature, to be the 
subject of such an interposition as that recorded in the 
Gospel. 

I. But I am to take up in the first place, and more 
in detail, the objection of the sceptical philosopher. 

The philosopher says, that man is a mean creature ; 
not so much a degraded being, as he is originally, a 
poor, insignificant creature ; an animal, some grades 
above others perhaps, but still an animal ; for whom, 
to suppose the provision of infinite mercy and of im- 
mortality to be made, is absurd. 

It is worth noticing, as we pass, and I therefore 
remark, the striking connection which is almost always 
found, between different parts of every mairs belief 
or scepticism. I never knew one to think wrongly 
about God, but he very soon began to think wrongly 
about man : or else the reverse is the process, and it is 
not material which. The things always go together. 
He who conceives of the Almighty as a severe, unjust 
and vindictive being, will regard man as a slave, will 
make him the slave of superstition, will take a sort 
of superstitious pleasure or merit in magnifying his 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



13 



wickedness or unworthiness. And he who thinks 
meanly of huina.11 nature, will think coldly and dis- 
trustfully of the Supreme Being, will think of him as 
withdrawing himself to a sublime distance from such 
a nature. In other words, he who does not take the 
Christian view, and has no apprehension of the infi- 
nite love of God. will not believe that he has made 
man with such noble faculties, or for such noble ends, 
as we assert The discussion proposed is obviously, 
even in this view, one of no trifling importance. 

Let us, then, proceed to the objection of our philoso- 
pher. He says, I repeat, that man is a mean crea- 
ture, fit only for the earth on which he is placed, fit 
for no higher destination than to be buried in its 
bosom, and there to find his end. The philosopher 
rejects what he calls the theologian's dream about the 
fall. He says that man needed no fall in order to be 
a degraded creature ; that he is, and was, always and 
originally, a degraded creature ; a being, not fallen 
from virtue, but incapable of virtue ; a being, not cor- 
rupted from his innocence, but one who never possess- 
ed innocence : a bein^ never of heaven, but a being* 
only of earth aud sense and appetite, and never fit for 
any thing better. 

Now let us go at once to the main point in argu- 
ment, which is proposed to be illustrated in this dis- 
course. "What need, I ask, of speaking of human 
debasement, in such indignant or sneering tones, if it 
is the real and only nature of man ? There is no- 
thing to blame or scorn in man, if he is naturally such 
a poor and insignificant creature. If he was made 
only for the senses and appetites, what occasion, I 
pray, for any wonder or abuse, that he is sensual and 
debased ? Why waste invectives on such a being ? 
The truth is, that this zealous depreciation of human 
2 



14 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



nature betrays a consciousness, tha;t it is not so utterly 
worthless, after all. It is no sufficient reply to say, 
that this philosophic scorn has been aroused by the 
extravagance of human pretensions. For if these 
pretensions were utterly groundless, if the being who 
aspired to virtue were fit only for sensation, or if the 
being whose thoughts swelled to the great hope of 
immortality, were only a higher species of the animal 
creation, and must share its fate ; if this were true, his 
pretensions could justly create only a feeling of won- 
der, or of sadness. 

We might say much to rebut the charge of the phi- 
losopher ; so injurious to the soul, so fatal to all just 
self-respect, so fatal to all elevated virtue and devotion. 
We might say that the most ordinary tastes and the 
most trifling pursuits of man carry, to the observant 
eye, marks of the nobler mind. We might say that 
vain trifling, and that fleeting, dying pleasure, does 
not satisfy the immortal want ; and that toil does not 
crush the soul, that the body cannot weigh down the 
spirit to its own drudgery. We might ask our proud 
reasoner, moreover, whence the moral and metaphysi- 
cal philosopher obtains the facts with which he specu- 
lates, and argues, and builds up his admirable theory ? 
And our sceptic must answer, that the metaphysical 
and moral philosopher goes to human nature ; that he 
goes to it in its very attitudes of toil and its free act- 
ings of passion, and thence takes his materials and his 
form, and his living charm of representation, which 
delight the world. We might say still more. We 
might say that all there is of vastness and grandeur 
and beauty in the world, lies in the conception of man ; 
that the immensity of the universe, as we term it, is 
but the reach of his imagination ; that immensity in 
other words is but the image of his own idea ; that 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



15 



there is no eternity to him, but that which exists in 
his own unbounded thought ; that there is no God to 
man, but what has been conceived of in his own capa- 
cious and unmeasured understanding. 

These things we might say ; but I will rather meet 
the objector on his own ground, confident that I may 
triumph even there. I take up the indignant argu- 
ment, then. I allow that there is much weight and 
truth in it, though it brings me to a different conclu- 
sion. I feel that man is, in many respects and in 
many situations, and above all, compared with what 
he should be, that man is a mean creature. I feel it, 
as I should if I saw some youth of splendid talents 
and promise plunging in at the door of vice and infa- 
my. Yes, it is meanness, for a man — who stands in 
the presence of his God and among the sons of heaven ; 
it is meanness in him to play the humble part of syco- 
phant before his fellows ; to fawn and flatter, to make 
his very soul a slave, barely to gain from that fellow- 
man his smile, his nod, his hand ; his favour, his vote, 
his patronage. It is meanness for a man to prevari- 
cate and falsify, to sell his conscience for advantage, 
to barter his soul for gain, to give his noble brow to 
the smiting blush of shame, or his cheek to the dead- 
ly paleness of convicted dishonesty. Yes, it is a deg- 
radation unutterable, for a man to steep his soul in 
gross, sensual, besotting indulgence ; to live for this, 
and in this one, poor, low sensation to shut up the 
mind with all its boundless range ; to sink to a debase- 
ment more than beastly ; below where an animal can 
go. Yes, all this, and much beside this is meanness ; 
but why, now I ask — why do we speak of it thus, 
unless it is because we speak of a being who might 
have put on such a nobility of soul, and such a lofti- 
ness and independence, and spiritual beauty and glory, 



16 



ON HUMAN NATURE, 



as would fling rebuke upon all the hosts of sin and 
temptation, and cast dimness upon all the splendour 
of the world ? 

It may be proper under the head of philosophical 
objections to take notice of the celebrated maxim of 
Rochefoucauld ; since it is among the written, and 
has as good a title as others, to be among the philo- 
sophic objections. This maxim is, that we take a 
sort of pleasure in the disappointments and miseries of 
others, and are pained at their good fortune and suc- 
cess. If this maxim were intended to fix upon man- 
kind the charge of pure, absolute, disinterested malig- 
nity, and if it could be sustained, it would be fatal to 
my argument. If I believed this, I should believe not 
only in total, but in diabolical depravity. And I am 
aware, that the apologists for human nature, receiving 
the maxim in this light, have usually contented them- 
selves with indignantly denying its truth. I shall, 
however, for myself take different ground. I suppose., 
and I admit, that the maxim is true, to a certain ex- 
tent. Yet I deny that the feelings on which it is 
founded, are malignant. They may be selfish, they 
may be bad ; but they are not malicious and diaboli- 
cal. But let us explain. It should be premised, that 
there is nothing wrong in our desiring the goods and 
advantages of life, provided the desire be kept within 
proper bounds. Suppose then that you are pursuing 
the same object with your neighbour, a situation, an 
office, for instance ; and suppose that he succeeds. 
His success, at the first disclosure of it to you, will of 
course, give you a degree of pain ; and for this reason : 
it immediately brings the sense of your own disap- 
pointment. Now it is not wrong perhaps, that you 
do regret your own failure ; it is probably unavoidable 
that you should. You feel perhaps that you need, or 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 17 

deserve the appointment, more than your rival. You 
cannot help, therefore, on every account, regretting 
that he has obtained it. It does not follow that you 
wish him any less happy. You may make the dis- 
tinction in your own mind. You may say — " I am 
glad he is happy ; but I am sorry he has the place ; I 
wish he could be as happy in some other situation." 
Now all this, so far from being malignant, is scarcely 
selfish ; and even when the feeling in a very bad 
mind is altogether selfish, yet it is very different from 
a malignant pain, at another's good fortune. But 
now, let us extend the case a little, from immediate 
rivalship to that general competition of interests which 
exists in society ; a competition which the selfishness 
of men makes to be far more than is necessary, and 
conceives to be far greater than it is. There is an 
erroneous idea, or imagination shall I call it — and 
certainly it is one of the moral delusions of the world 
— that something gained by another, is something lost 
to one's self : and hence the feeling, before described, 
may arise at almost any indifferent instance of good 
fortune. But it always rises in this proportion : it is 
stronger, the nearer the case comes to direct competi- 
tion. You do not envy a rich man in China, nor a 
great man in Tartary. But if envy, as it has been 
sometimes called, were pure malignity, a man should 
be sorry that any body is happy, that any body is for- 
tunate or honoured in the world. But this is not true ; 
it does not apply to human nature. If you ever feel 
pain at the successes or acquisitions of another, it is 
when they come into comparison or contrast with 
your own failures or deficiencies. You feel that those 
successes or acquisitions might have been your own ; 
you regret, and perhaps rightly, that they are not; 
and then, you insensibly slide into the very wrong 
2# 



18 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



feeling of regret, that they belong to another. This 
is envy ; and it is sufficiently base ; but it is not pure- 
ly malicious, and it is, in fact, the perversion of a feel- 
ing originally capable of good and valuable uses. 

But I must pursue the sceptical philosopher a step 
farther ; into actual life. The term 7 philosopher, may 
seem to be but ill applied here : but we have probably 
all of us known or heard those, who, pretending to 
have a considerable knowledge of the world, if not 
much other knowledge, take upon them with quite an 
air of philosophic superiority, to pronounce human 
nature nothing but a mass of selfishness ; and to say 
that this mass, whenever it is refined, is only refined 
into luxury and licentiousness, duplicity and knavery. 
Some simple souls they suppose there may be, in the 
retired corners of the earth, that are walking in the 
chains of mechanical habit or superstitious piety, who 
have not the knowledge to understand nor the courage 
to seek, what they want. But the moment they do 
act freely, they act, says our objector, upon the selfish 
principle. And this he maintains is the principle 
which, in fact, governs the world. Nay more, he 
avers, that it is the only reasonable and sufficient prin- 
ciple of action ; and freely confesses that it is his own. 

Let me ask you here to keep distinctly in view the 
ground, which the objector now assumes. There are 
talkers against human virtue, who never think how- 
ever of going to this length ; men in fact, who are a 
great deal better than their theory ; whose example, 
indeed, refutes their theory. But there are worse ob- 
jectors and worse men ; vicious and corrupt men ; sen- 
sualists ; sensualists in philosophy, and in practice 
alike ; who would gladly believe all the rest of the 
world as bad as themselves. And these are objectors, 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



19 



I say, who like the objections before stated, refute 
themselves. 

For who is this small philosopher, that smiles, either 
at the simplicity of all honest men, or at the simpli- 
city of all honest defenders of them ? He is, in the 
first place, a man who stands up before us, and has 
the face to boast, that he is himself without principle. 
No doubt, he thinks other men as bad as himself. A 
man necessarily, perhaps, judges the actions of other 
men by his own feelings. He has no other interpre- 
ter. The honest man, therefore, will often presume 
honesty in another ; and the generous man, generosity. 
And so the selfish man can see nothing around him 
but selfishness ; and the knave, nothing but dishon- 
esty ; and he who never felt any thing of a generous 
and self-devoting piety, who never bowed down in that 
holy and blessed worship, can see in prayer nothing 
but the offering of selfish fear ; in piety, nothing but a 
slavish superstition. 

In the next place, this sneerer at all virtue and 
piety, not only imagines others to be as destitute of 
principle as himself ; but to some extent, he makes 
them such, or makes them seem such. His eye of 
pride chills every goodly thing it looks upon. His 
breath of scorn blights every generous virtue where it 
comes. His supple and crafty hand puts all men 
upon their guard. They become like himself, for the 
time ; they become more crafty while they deal with 
him. How shall any noble aspiration, any high and 
pure thoughts, any benevolent purposes, any sacred 
and holy communing, venture into the presence of the 
proud and selfish scorner of all goodness ! It has been 
said, that the letters your friends write to you, will 
show their opinion of your temper and tastes. And 
so it is, to a certain extent, with conversation. 



20 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



But in the third place, where, let us ask, has this 
man studied human nature ? Lord Chesterfield ob- 
serves — and the observation is worthy of a man who 
never seems to have looked beneath the surface of any 
thing — that the Court and the Camp are the places, 
in which a knowledge of mankind is to be gained. 
And we may remark, that it is from two fields not alto- 
gether dissimilar, that our sceptic about virtue always 
gains his knowledge of mankind : I mean, from fash- 
ion and business: the two most artificial spheres of 
active life. Our objector has witnessed heartless civil- 
ities, and imagines that he is acquainted with the deep 
fountains of human nature. Or he has been out into 
the paths of business, and seen men girt up for com- 
petition, and acting in that artificial state of things 
which trade produces ; and he imagines that he has 
witnessed the free and unsophisticated workings of 
the human heart ; he supposes that the laws of trade, 
are also the laws of human affection. He thinks him- 
self deeply read in the book of the human heart, that 
unfathomable mystery, because he is acquainted with 
notes and bonds, with cards and compliments. 

How completely, then, is this man disqualified from 
judging of human nature ! There is a power, which 
few possess, which none have attained in perfection ; 
a power to unlock the retired, the deeper and nobler 
sensibilities of men's minds, to draw out the hoarded 
and hidden virtues of the soul, to open the fountains 
which custom and ceremony and reserve have sealed 
up : it is a power, I repeat, which few possess— how 
evidently does our objector possess it not — and yet 
without some portion of which, no man should think 
himself qualified to study human nature. Men know 
but little of each other, after all ; but little know how 
many good and tender affections are suppressed and 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



21 



kept out of sight, by diffidence, by delicacy, by the 
fear of appearing awkward or ostentatious, by habits 
of life, by education, by sensitiveness, and even by 
strong sensibility, that sometimes puts on a hard and 
rough exterior for its own check or protection. And 
the power that penetrates all these barriers, must be 
an extraordinary one. There must belong to it chari- 
ty, and kindness, and forbearance, and sagacity, and 
fidelity to the trust which the opening heart reposes 
in it. But how peculiarly, I repeat, how totally devoid 
of this power of opening and unfolding the real char- 
acter of his fellows, must be the scoffer at human na- 
ture ! 

I have said that this man gathers his conclusions 
from the most formal and artificial aspects of the 
world. He never could have drawn them from the 
holy retreats of domestic life — to say nothing of those 
deeper privacies of the heart of which I have just been 
speaking ; he never could have drawn his conclusions 
from those family scenes, where unnumbered, name- 
less, minute, and indescribable sacrifices are daily 
made, by thousands and ten thousands all around us ; 
he never could have drawn them from the self-devo- 
ting mother's cares, or from the grateful return, the 
lovely assiduity and tenderness of filial affection ; he 
never could have derived his contemptuous inference 
from the sick-room, where friendship, in silent prayer, 
watches and tends its charge. No : he dare not go 
out from our dwellings, from our temples, from our 
hospitals — he dare not tread upon the holy places of 
the land, the high places where the devout have pray- 
ed, and the brave have died, and proclaim that pat- 
riotism is a visionary sentiment ; and piety a selfish 
delusion ; and charity a pretence ; and virtue, a name ! 



22 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



II. But it is time that we come now to the objection 
of the Theologian. And I go at once to the single 
and strong point of his objection. The Theologian 
says that human nature is bad and corrupt. Now, 
taking this language in the practical and popular 
sense, I find no difficulty in agreeing with the Theo- 
logian. And, indeed, if he would confine himself — 
leaving vague and general declamation and technical 
phraseology — if he would confine himself to facts ; if 
he would confine himself to a description of actual bad 
qualities and dispositions in men, I think he could not 
well go too far. Nay more, I am not certain that any 
Theologian's description so far as it is of this nature, 
has gone deep enough into the frightful mass of hu- 
man depravity. For it requires an acute perception, 
that is rarely possessed, and a higher and holier con- 
science, perhaps, than belongs to any, to discover and 
to declare, how bad, and degraded and unworthy a 
being, a bad man is. I confess that nothing would 
beget in me a higher respect for a man, than a real — 
not a theological and factitious — but a real and deep 
sense of human sinfulness and unworthiness ; of the 
grievous wrong which man does to himself, to his reli- 
gion and to his God, when he yields to the evil and 
accursed inclinations that find place in him. This 
moral indignation is not half strong enough, even in 
those who profess to talk the most about human de- 
pravity. And the objection to them is, not that they 
feel too much or speak too strongly, about the actual 
wickedness, the actual and distinct sins of the wicked ; 
but they speak too generally and vaguely of human 
wickedness, that they speak with too little discrimina- 
tion to every man as if he were a murderer or a mon- 
ster, that they speak in fine too argumentatively, and 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



23 



too much, if I may say so, with a sort of argumenta- 
tive satisfaction, as if they were glad that they could 
make this point so strong. 

I know then, and admit, that men and all men more 
or less, are, alas ! sinful and bad. I know that the 
catalogue of human transgressions is long and dark 
and mournful. The words, pride and envy and anger 
and selfishness and base indulgence, are words of 
lamentation. They are words that should make a 
man weep when he pronounces them ; and most of all 
when he applies them to himself, or to his fellow-men. 

But what now is the inference from all this ? Is it 
that man is an utterly debased, degraded, and con- 
temptible creature : that there is nothing in him to be 
revered, or respected ; that the human heart presents 
nothing to us but a mark for cold and blighting re- 
proach? Without wishing to assert anything para- 
doxical, it seems to me that the very reverse is the 
inference. 

I should reason thus upon this point. I should say, 
it must be a noble creature that can so offend. I 
should say, there must be a contrast of light and 
shade, to make the shade so deep. It is no ordinary 
being, surely ; it is a being of conscience, of moral 
powers and glorious capacities, that calls from us such 
intense reproach and indignation. We never so ar- 
raign the animal creation. The very power of sin- 
ning is a lofty and awful power ! It is, in the lan- 
guage of our holiest poet, "the excess of glory ob- 
scured." Neither is it a power standing alone. It is not 
a solitary, unqualified, diabolical power of evil ; a dark 
and cold abstraction of wickedness. No, it is clothed 
with other qualities. No, it has dread attendants ; 
attendants, I had almost said, that dignify even the 
wrong. A waiting conscience, visitings-^-Oh ! visit- 



24 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



ings of better thoughts, calls of honour and self respect 
come to the sinner ; terrific admonition whispering in 
his secret ear. prophetic warning pointing him to the 
dim and veiled shadows of future retribution, and the 
all-penetrating, all-surrounding idea of an avenging 
God are present with him : and the right arm of the 
felon and the transgressor is lifted up, amidst light- 
nings of conviction and thunderings of reproach. I 
can tremble at such a being as this ; I can pity him ; 
I can weep for him ; but I cannot scorn him. 

The very words of condemnation which Ave apply 
to sin, are words of comparison. When we describe 
the act of the transgressor as mean for instance, we 
recognise I repeat, the nobility of his nature ; and 
when we say that his offence is a degradation, we 
imply a certain distinction. And so to do wrong im- 
plies a noble power, the very power which constitutes 
the glory of heaven; the power to do right. And 
thus it is, as I apprehend, that the inspired Teachers 
speak of the wickedness and unworthiness of man. 
They seem to do it under a sense of his better capaci- 
ties and higher distinction. They speak as if he had 
wronged himself. And when they use the words ruin 
and perdition, they announce, in affecting terms, the 
worth of that which is reprobate and lost. Paul when 
speaking of his transgressions says, — " not I, but the 
sin that dweileth in me." There was a better nature 
in him that resisted evil, though it did not always 
successfully resist. And Ave read of the Prodigal Son 
— in terms which have always seemed to me of the 
most affecting import — that when he came to the 
sense of his duty, he "came — to himself" Yes, the 
sinner is beside himself ; and there is no peace, no 
reconciliation of his conduct to his nature, till he re- 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



25 



turns from his evil ways. Shall w e not say then, that 
his nature demands virtue and rectitude to satisfy it ? 

True it is. and I would not be one to weaken nor 
obscure the truth, that man is sinful ; but he is not 
satisfied with sinning. Not his conscience only, but 
his wants, his natural affections, are not satisfied. He 
pays deep penalties for his transgressions. And these 
sulferings proclaim a higher nature. The pain, the 
disappointment, the dissatisfaction that wait on an 
evil course, show that the human soul was not made 
to be the instrument of sin, but its lofty avenger. 
The desolated affections, the haggard countenance, 
the pallid and sunken cheek, the sighings of grief, 
proclaim that there are ruins indeed, but they pro- 
claim that something noble has fallen into ruin — pro- 
claim it by signs mournful, yet venerable, like the 
desolations of an ancient temple, like its broken walls 
and falling columns and the hollow sounds of decay, 
that sink down heavily among its deserted recesses. 

The sinner, I repeat it. is a sufferer. He seeks hap- 
piness in low and unworthy objects : that is his sin : 
but he does not find it there : and that is his glory. 
No, he does not find it there : he returns disappointed 
and melancholy : and there is nothing on earth so 
eloquent as his grief. Read it in the pages of a Byron 
and a Burns. There is nothing in literature so touch- 
ing as these lamentations of noble but erring natures, 
in the vain quest of a happiness which the world and 
the world's pleasure can never give. The sinner is 
often dazzled by earthly fortune and pomp, but it is 
in the very midst of these things, that he sometimes 
most feels their emptiness : that his higher nature 
most feels that it is solitary and unsatisfied. It is in 
the giddy whirl of frivolous pursuits and amusements, 
that his soul oftentimes is sick and weary with trifles 
3 



26 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



and vanities : that " he says of laughter, it is mad ; 
and of mirth, what doeth it ?" 

And yet it is not bare disappointment, nor the mere 
destitution of happiness caused by sin — it is not these 
alone that give testimony to a better nature. There 
is a higher power that bears sway in the human 
heart. It is remorse, sacred, uncompromising re- 
morse ; that will hear of no selfish calculations of pain 
and pleasure ; that demands to suffer ; that, of all 
sacrifices on earth, save those of benevolence, brings 
the only willing victim. What lofty revenge does the 
abused soul thus take, for its offences ; never, no, 
never, in all its anger, punishing another, as in its jus- 
tice, it punishes itself ! 

Such, then, are the attributes that still dwell in the 
dark grandeur of the soul ; the beams of original light, 
of which amidst its thickest darkness it is never shorn. 
That in which all the nobleness of earth resides, 
should not be condemned even, but with awe and 
trembling. It is our treasure ; and if this is lost, all is 
lost. Let us take care, then, that we be not unjust. 
Man is not an angel ; but neither is he a demon ; nor 
a brute. The evil he does is not committed with bru- 
tish insensibility, nor with diabolical satisfaction. And 
the evil, too, is often disguised under forms that do 
not, at once, permit him to see its real character. His 
affections become wrong, by excess ; passions bewil- 
der ; semblances delude ; interests ensnare ; example 
corrupts. And yet no tyrant over men's thoughts, no 
unworthy seeker of their adulation, no pander for 
guilty pleasure, could ever make the human heart 
what he would. And in making it what he has, he 
has often found that he had to work with stubborn 
materials. No perseverance of endeavour, nor devices 
of ingenuity, nor depths of artifice, have ever equalled 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



27 



those which are sometimes employed to corrupt the 
heart from its youthful simplicity and uprightness. 

In endeavouring to state the views which are to be 
entertained of human nature. I have, at present, and 
before I reverse the picture, but one further observa- 
tion to make. And that is on the spirit and tone with 
which it is to be viewed and spoken of. I have wish- 
ed, even in speaking of its faults, to awaken a feeling 
of reverence and regret for it. such as would arise 
within us. on beholding a noble but mutilated statue 
or the work of some divine architect, in ruins, or some 
majestic object in nature, which had been marred by 
the rending of this world's elements and changes. 
Above all other objects, surely, human nature deserves 
to be regarded with these sentiments. The ordinary 
tone of conversation in allusion to this subject, the 
sneering remark on mankind, as a set of poor and 
miserable creatures, the cold and bitter severity whether 
of philosophic scorn or theological rancour, become 
no being : least of all, him who has part in this com- 
mon nature. He, at least, should speak with conside- 
ration and tenderness. And if he must speak of faults 
and sins, he would do well to imitate an Apostle, and 
to tell these things, even weeping. His tone should 
be that of forbearance and pity. His words should be 
recorded in a Book of Lamentations. " How is the 
gold become dim," he might exclaim in the words of 
an ancient lamentation — " how is the gold become 
dim, and the most fine gold changed ! The precious 
sons of Zion, comparable to fine gold, how are they 
esteemed but as earthen vessels, the work of the hands 
of the potter !" 



II. 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 

FjA THOU HAST MADE HIM A LITTLE LOWER THAN THE ANGELS, AND HAST 
CROWNED HIM WITH GLORY AND HONOUR. — Psalm Till. 5. 

I have endeavoured, in my last discourse, to show 
that the very objections which are usually brought 
against human nature, imply in the very fact, in the 
very spirit and tone of them, the strongest concessions 
to its worth. I shall now proceed to the direct argu- 
ment in its favour. It is the constitutional worth of 
human nature that we have thus far considered rather 
than its moral worth, or absolute virtue. TTe have 
considered the indignant reproaches against its sin 
and debasement, whether of the philosopher or the 
theologian, as evidence of their own conviction, that 
it was made for something better. We have consid- 
ered that moral constitution of human nature, by 
which it was evidently made not to be the slave of sin. 
but its conqueror. 

Let us now proceed to take some account of its 
moral traits and acquisitions. I say its moral traits 
and acquisitions. For there are feelings of the human 
mind which scarcely rise to the character of acquisi- 
tions, which are involuntary impulses : and yet which 
possess a nature as truly moral, though not in as high 
a degree, as any voluntary acts of virtue. Such is 
the simple, natural love of excellence. It bears the 
same relation to moral effort, as spontaneous reason 
does to reflection or logical effort : and what is spon- 
taneous, in both cases, is the very foundation of the 
acquisitions that follow. Thus, the involuntary per- 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 29 

ception of a few axioms lies at the foundation of 
Mathematical science ; and so from certain sponta- 
neous impressions of truth, springs all knowledge ; 
and in the same manner, our spontaneous moral im- 
pressions are the germs of the highest moral efforts. 

Of these spontaneous impressions, I am to speak in. 
the first place ; and then to produce in favour of 
human nature the testimony of its higher and more 
confirmed virtues. 

But I am not willing to enter upon this theme, 
without first offering a remark or two, to prevent any 
misconception of the purpose for which I again bring 
forward this discussion. It is not to bring to the altar 
at which I minister, an oblation of flattery to my 
fellow worshippers. It is not to make any man feel 
his moral dangers to be less, or to make him easier in 
reference to that solemn, spiritual trust that is com- 
mitted to his nature ; but the very contrary. It is not 
to make him think less of his faults, but more. It is 
not in fine to build up any one theological dogma, or 
to beat down another. 

My view of the subject, if I may state it without 
presumption, is this ; that there is a treasure in human 
nature of which most men are not conscious, and with 
which none are yet fully acquainted ! If you had 
met in a retired part of the country with some rustic 
youth who bore in his character, the indications of a 
most sublime genius, and if you saw that he was 
ignorant of it, and that those around him were igno- 
rant of it, you would look upon him with extreme, 
with enthusiastic interest, and you would be anxious 
to bring him into the light, and to rear him up to his 
proper sphere of honour. This, may I be permitted to 
say, illustrates the view which I take of human 
nature. I believe that there is something in every 
3* 



30 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



man's heart upon which he ought to look as a found 
treasure ; something upon which he ought to look 
with awe and wonder ; something w T hich should make 
him tremble when he thinks of sacrificing it to evil ; 
something also, to encourage and cheer him in every 
endeavour after virtue and purity. Far be it from me 
to say, that that something is confirmed goodness, or 
is the degree of goodness which is necessary to make 
him happy, here or hereafter ; or, that it is something 
to rest upon, or to rely upon, in the anticipation of 
God's judgment. Still I believe that he who says 
there is nothing good in him, no foundation, no feel- 
ing of goodness, says what is not true, what is not 
just to himself, what is not just to his Maker's benefi- 
cence. 

I will refer now, to those moral traits, to those in- 
voluntary moral impressions, of which I have already 
spoken. 

Instances of this nature might undoubtedly be 
drawn from every department of social life ; from 
social kindness, from friendship, from parental and 
filial love, from the feelings of spontaneous generosit}^, 
pity and axlmiration, which every day kindles into life 
and warmth around us. But since these feelings are 
often alleged to be of a doubtful character, and are so, 
indeed, to a certain extent ; since they are often mixed 
up with interested considerations which lessen their 
weight in this argument, I am about to appeal to 
cases, which, though they are not often brought into 
the pulpit, will appear to you I trust to be excused, if 
not justified, by the circumstance that they are alto- 
gether apposite cases ; cases that is to say, of disinter- 
ested feeling. 

The world is inundated in this age, with a perfect 
deluge of fictitious productions. I look, indeed, upon 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



31 



the exclusive reading of such works, in which too 
many employ their leisure time, as having a very bad 
and dangerous tendency : but this is not to my pur- 
pose at present. I only refer now to the well known 
extent and fascination of this kind of reading, for the 
purpose of putting a single question. I ask, what is 
the moral character of these productions ? Not high 
enough, certainly ; but then I ask still more specifical- 
ly, whether the preference is given to virtue or to vice, 
in these books ; and to which of them, the feelings of 
the reader generally lean? Can there be one mo- 
ment's doubt ? Is not virtue usually held up to admi- 
ration, and are not the feelings universally enlisted in 
its favour? Must not the character of the leading 
personage in the story, to satisfy the public taste, be 
good, and is not his career pursued with intense inter- 
est to the end ? Now reverse the case. Suppose his 
character to be bad. Suppose him ungenerous, avari- 
cious, sensual, debased. W ould he then be admired ? 
Would he then enlist the sympathies even of the most 
frivolous reader ? It is unnecessary to answer the 
question. Here, then, is a right and virtuous feeling 
at work in the world ; and it is a perfectly disinterest- 
ed feeling. Here, I say, is a right and virtuous feel- 
ing, beating through the whole heart of society. Why 
should any one say, it is not a feeling ; that it is con- 
science ; that it is mere approbation ! It is a feeling, 
if any thing is. There is intense interest ; there are 
tears, to testify that it is a feeling. 

If, then, I put such a book into the hands of any 
reader, and if he feels thus, let him not tell me that 
there is nothing good in him. There may not be 
goodness, fixed, habitual goodness in him ; but there 
is something good, out of which goodness may grow, 

Of the same character are the most favourite popu- 



32 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



lar songs and ballads. The chosen themes of these 
compositions are patriotism, generosity, pity, love. 
Now it is known that nothing sinks more deeply into 
the heart of nations ; and yet these are their themes. 
Let me make the ballads of a people, some one has 
said, and let who will, make their laws ; and yet he 
must construct them on these principles ; he must 
compose them in praise of patriotism, honour, fidelity, 
generous sympathy and pure love. I say, pure love. 
Let the passion be made a base one ; let it be capri- 
cious, mercenary, or sensual, and it instantly loses the 
public sympathy : the song would be instantly hissed 
from the stage of the vilest theatre that ever was 
opened. No, it must be true-hearted affection, hold- 
ing its faith and fealty bright and unsoiled, amidst 
change of fortunes, amidst poverty, and disaster, and 
separation, and reproach. The popular taste will 
hardly allow the affection to be as prudent as it ought 
to be. And when I listen to one of these popular 
ballads or songs that tells — it may be not in the best 
taste — but which tells the thrilling tale of high, disin- 
terested, magnanimous fidelity to the sentiments of 
the heart ; that tells of pure and faithful affection, 
which no cold looks can chill, which no storms of 
misfortune can quench, which prefers simple merit to 
all worldly splendour ; when I observe this, 1 say, I 
see a noble feeling at work ; and that which many 
will pronounce to be silly, through a certain shame- 
facedness about their own sensibility, T regard as re- 
spectable, and honourable to human nature. 

Now I say again, as I said before, let these popular 
compositions set forth the beauties of vice ; let them 
celebrate meanness, parsimony, fraud or cowardice ; 
and would they dwell, as they now do, in the habita- 
tions, and in the hearts, and upon the lips, of whole 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



33 



nations ? What a disinterested testimony is this to the 
charms of virtue ! What evidence that men feel those 
charms, though they may not be won by them to 
virtuous lives ! The national songs of a people do not 
embrace cold sentiments ; they are not sung or heard 
with cold approbation. They fire the breasts of mil- 
lions. They draw tears from the eyes of ten thousand 
listening throngs, that are gathered in the homes of 
human affection. 

And the power of music, too, as a separate thing, 
lies, very much, as it seems to me, in the sentiments 
and affections it awakens. There is a pleasure to the 
ear, doubtless ; but there is a pleasure also, to the heart ; 
and this is the greater pleasure. But what kind of 
pleasure is it ? Does that melody which addresses the 
universal mind, appeal to vile and base passions ? Is 
not the state into which it naturally throws almost 
every mind favourable to gentle and kind emotions, to 
lofty efforts and heroic sacrifices ? But if the human 
heart possessed no high nor holy feelings ; if it were 
entirely alien to them, then the music which excites 
them, should excite them to voluptuousness, cruelty, 
strife, fraud, avarice, and to all the mean aims and 
indulgences of a selfish disposition. 

Let not these illustrations — which are adopted, to be 
sure, partly because they are fitted to unfold a moral 
character where no credit has usually been given for 
it, and because, too, they present at once universal and 
disinterested manifestations of human feeling — let not 
these illustrations^ I say, be thought to furnish an un- 
satisfactory inference, because they are drawn from 
the lighter actions of the human mind. The feeling 
in all these cases is not superficial nor feeble ; and the 
slighter the occasion that awakens it, the stronger is 
our argument. If the leisure and recreations of men, 



34 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



yield such evidence of deep moral feeling, what are 
they not capable of. when armed wdth lofty purposes 
and engaged in high duties ? If the instrument yields 
such noble strains, though incoherent and intermitted, 
to the slightest touch ; what might not be done, if the 
hand of skill were laid upon it, to bring out all its sub- 
lime harmonies 7 Oh ! that some powerful voice might 
speak to this inward nature — powerful as the story of 
heroic deeds, moving as the voice of song, arousing as 
the trumpet-call to honour and victory ! My friends, 
if we are among those who are pursuing the sinful 
way, let us be assured that we know not ourselves yet ; 
we have not searched the depths of our nature ; we 
have not communed with its deepest wants ; we have 
not listened to its strongest and highest affections ; if 
we had done all this, we could not abuse it as we do ; 
nor could we neglect it as we do. 

But it is time to pass from these instances of spon- 
taneous and universal feeling, to those cases in which 
such feeling, instead of being occasional and evanes- 
cent, is formed into a prevailing habit and a consistent 
and fixed character ; to pass from good affections, tran- 
sient, uncertain, and unworthily neglected, to good 
men, who are permanently such, and worthy to be 
called such. Our argument from this source is more 
confined, but it gains strength by its compression within 
a narrower compass. 

I shall not be expected here to occupy the time, with 
asserting or proving, that there ars good men in the 
world. It will be more important to reply to a single 
objection under this head, w T hich would be fatal if it 
were just, and to point to some characteristics of human 
virtue w r hich prove its great and real worth. Let me 
however for a moment indulge myself in the simple 
assertion ? of what every mind, not entirely misan- 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



35 



thropic, must feel to be true. I say then that there 
are good men in the world : there are good men every 
where. There are men who are good for goodness' 
sake. In obscurity, in retirement, beneath the shadow 
of ten thousand dwellings, scarcely known to the world 
and never asking to be known, there are good men. 
In adversity, in poverty, amidst temptations, amidst 
all the severity of earthly trials, there are good men, 
whose lives shed brightness upon the dark clouds that 
surround them. Be it true, if we must admit the sad 
truth, that many are wrong, and persist in being wrong ; 
that many are false to every holy trust, and faithless 
towards every holy affection ; that many are estranged 
from infinite goodness ; that many are coldly selfish 
and meanly sensual ; yes, cold and dead to every thing 
that is not wrapped up in their own little earthly 
interest, or more darkly wrapped up in the veil of 
fleshly appetites. Be it so ; but I thank God, that is 
not all that we are obliged to believe. No, there are 
true hearts, amidst the throng of the false and the 
faithless. There are warm and generous hearts, 
which the cold atmosphere of surrounding selfishness 
never chills ; and eyes, unused to weep for personal 
sorrow, which often overflow with sympathy for the 
sorrows of others. Yes, there are good men, and true 
men ; I thank them ; I bless them for what they are : 
I thank them for what they are to me. What do I 
say — why do I utter my weak benediction ? God from 
on high, doth bless them, and he giveth his angels 
charge to keep them ; and no where in the holy Record 
are there words more precious or strong, than those in 
which it is written that God loveth these righteous 
ones. Such men are there. Let not their precious 
virtues be distrusted. As surely and as evidently as 
some men have obeyed the calls of ambition and 



36 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



pleasure, so surely, and so evidently, have other men 
obeyed the voice of conscience, and " chosen rather to 
suffer with the people of God than to enjoy the pleasures 
of sin for a season." Why, every meek man suffers in 
a conflict keener far, than the contest for honour and 
applause. And there are such men, who amidst 
injury, and insult, and misconstruction, and the pointed 
finger, and the scornful lip of pride, stand firm in their 
integrity and allegiance to a loftier principle, and still 
their throbbing hearts in prayer, and hush them to the 
gentle motions of kindness and pity. Such witnesses 
there are, even in this bad world ; signs that a redeem- 
ing work is going forward amidst its mournful dere- 
lictions ; proofs that it is not a world forsaken of 
heaven ; pledges that it will not be forsaken ; tokens 
that cheer and touch every good and thoughtful mind, 
beyond all other power of earth to penetrate and 
enkindle it. 

I believe that what I have now said, is a most legi- 
timate argument for the worth of human nature. As 
a matter of fact, it will not be denied that such beings 
as I have represented, there are. And I now further 
maintain, and this is the most material point in the 
argument, that such men — that good men, in other 
words — are to be regarded as the rightful and legiti- 
mate representatives of human nature. Surely, not 
man's vices but his virtues, not his failure but his suc- 
cess, should teach us what to think of his nature. Just 
as we should look, for their real character, to the pro- 
ductions nourished by a favourable soil and climate, 
and not to the same plants or trees, as they stand 
withered and stunted in a barren desert. 

But here we are met with the objection before 
referred to. It is said that man's virtues come from 
God ; and his sins only from his own nature. And 



ON HUMAN NATURE, 



37 



thus — for this is the result of the objection — from the 
estimate of what is human, all human excellence is at 
once cut off, by this fine discrimination of theological 
subtilty. Unreasonable as this seems to me, if the 
objector will forget his theology for one moment, I will 
answer it. I say, then, that the influence of the good 
spirit of God, does not destroy our natural powers, but 
guides them into a right direction : that it does not 
create any thing unnatural surely, nor supernatural in 
man, but what is suitable to his nature : that, in fine, 
his virtues are as truly the voluntary putting forth of 
his native powers, as his vices are. Else would his 
virtues have no worth. Human nature, in short, is 
the noble stock on which these virtues grow. With 
heaven's rain, and sunshine, and genial influence, do 
you say ? Be it so ; still they are no less human, and 
shoio the stock from which they spring. When you 
look over a grain-field, and see some parts more luxu- 
riant than others, do you say, that they are of a differ- 
ent nature from the rest ? And when you look abroad 
upon the world, do you think it right to take Tartars 
and Hottentots as specimens of the race ? And why 
then shall you regard the worst of men, rather than 
the best, as samples of human nature and capability ? 

The way, then, is open for us to claim for human 
nature, however that nature is breathed upon by 
heavenly influences, all the excellent fruits that have 
sprung from it. And they are not few ; they are not 
small ; they are not contemptible. 

They have cost too much — if there were no other 
consideration to give them value ; they have cost too 
much, to be thus estimated. 

The true idea of human nature, is not, that it pas- 
sively and spontaneously produces its destined results ; 
4 



38 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



but, that placed in a fearful contest between good and 
evil, it is capable of glorious exertions and attainments. 
Human virtue is the result of effort and patience, in 
circumstances that most severely try it. Human 
excellence is much of it gained at the expense of self- 
denial. All the wisdom and worth in the world, are a 
struggle with ignorance and infirmity and temptation ; 
often with sickness and pain. There is not an admi- 
rable character presented before you, but it has cost 
years and years, of toil and watching and self-govern- 
ment to form it. You see the victor, but you forget 
the battle. And you forget it, for a reason that exalts 
and ennobles the fortitude and courage of the combat- 
ant. You forget it, because the conflict has been car- 
ried on, all silently, in his own bosom. You forget it, 
because no sound has gone forth, and no wreath of 
fame has awaited the conqueror. 

And what has he gained ? — to refer to but one more 
of the views that might be urged ; what has he gained? 
I answer, what is worth too much to be slightly esti- 
mated. The catalogue of human virtues is not brief 
nor dull. What glowing words do we involuntarily 
put into that record ! with what feelings do we hallow 
it ! The charm of youthful excellence, the strong 
integrity of manhood, the venerable piety of age ; 
unsullied honour, unswerving truth ; fidelity, magna- 
nimity, self-sacrifice, martyrdom ; ay, and the spirit 
of martyrdom in many a form of virtue ; sacred friend- 
ship, with its disinterested toil, ready to die for those 
it loves ; noble patriotism, slain in its high places, 
beautiful in death ; holy philanthropy, that pours out 
its treasure and its life ! dear and blessed virtues of 
humanity ! (we are ready to exclaim.) what human 
heart does not cherish you ? Bright cloud that hath 
passed on with " the sacramental host of God's elect," 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



39 



through ages ! — how dark and desolate but for you, 
would be this world's history ! 

My friends. I have spoken of the reality and worth 
of virtue, and I have spoken of it as a part of human 
nature, not surely to awaken a feeling of pride, but to 
lead you and myself, to an earnest aspiration after that 
excellence, which embraces the chief welfare and glory 
of our nature. A cold disdain of our species, an indul- 
gence of sarcasm, a feeling that is always ready to 
distrust and disparage every indication of virtuous 
principle, or an utter despair of the moral fortunes of 
our race, will not help the purpose in view, but must 
have a powerful tendency to hinder its accomplish- 
ment. 

Unhappy is it, that any are left, by any possibility, 
to doubt the virtues of their kind ! Let us do some- 
thing to wipe away from the history of human life, 
that fatal reproach. Let us make that best of contri- 
butions to the stock of human happiness, an example 
of goodness that shall disarm such gloomy and chilling 
scepticism, and win men's hearts to virtue. I have 
received many benefits, from my fellow-beings. But 
no gift, in their power to bestow, can ever impart such 
a pure and thrilling delight, as one bright action, one 
lovely virtue, one character that shines with all the 
enrapturing beauty of goodness. 

Who would not desire to confer such benefits on the 
world as these ? Who would not desire to leave such 
memorials behind him ? Such memorials have been 
left on earth. The virtues of the departed, but forever 
dear, hallow and bless many of our dwellings, and call 
forth tears that lose half of their bitterness in gratitude 
and admiration. Yes, there are such legacies, and 
there are those on earth who have inherited them. 
Yes. there are men, poor men, whose parents have left 



40 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



them a legacy in their bare memory, that they would 
not exchange — no, they would not exchange it for 
boundless wealth. Let it be our care to bequeath to 
society and to the world, blessings like these. " The 
memorial of virtue," saith the wisdom of Solomon, " is 
immortal. When it is present, men take example from 
it ; and when it is gone, they desire it ; it weareth a 
crown, and triumpheth forever." 



III. 



ON THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES TO HUMAN NATURE. 

HE THAT SINNETH AGAINST ME WRONGETH HIS OWN SOUL. — PrOY. Tiii. 36. 

This is represented as the language of wisdom. 
The attribute of wisdom is personified throughout the 
chapter ; and it closes its instructions with the declara- 
tion of our text : " He that sinneth against me.wrongeth 
his own soul.*' The theme, then, which, in these 
words, is obviously presented for our meditation, is the 
wrong which the sinner does to himself, to his nature, 
to his own soul. 

He does a wrong, indeed, to others. He does them, 
it may be, deep and heinous injury. The moral offen- 
der injures society, and injures it in the most vital part. 
Sin is, to all the dearest interests of society, a deso- 
lating power. It spreads misery through the world. 
It brings that misery into the daily lot of millions. 
The violence of anger, the exactions of selfishness, the 
corrodings of envy, the coldness of distrust, the contests 
of pride, the excesses of passion, the indulgences of 
sense, carry desolation into the very bosom of domestic 
life ; and the crushed and bleeding hearts of friends 
and kindred, or of a larger circle of the suffering and 
oppressed, are every where witnesses at once, and vic- 
tims to the mournful presence of this great evil. 

But all the injury, great and terrible as it is, which 
the sinner does or can inflict upon others, is not equal 
to the injury that he inflicts upon himself. The evil 
that he does, is 5 in almost all cases, the greater, the 
4* 



42 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



nearer it comes to himself ; greater to his friends than 
to society at large ; greater to his family, than to his 
friends ; and so it is greater to himself than it is to any 
other. Yes, it is in his own nature, whose glorious 
traits are dimmed and almost blotted out, whose plead- 
ing remonstrances are sternly disregarded, whose im- 
mortal hopes are rudely stricken down ; it is in his 
own nature that he does a work so dark and mournful, 
and so fearful, that he ought to shudder and weep to 
think of it. 

Does any one say, " he is glad that it is so ; glad 
that it is himself he injures most ?" What a feeling, 
my brethren, of disinterested justice is that ! How 
truly, may it be said, that there is something good in 
bad men. Doubtless, there are those, who in their 
remorse at an evil deed, would be glad if all the injury 
and suffering could be their own. I rejoice in that 
testimony. But does that feeling make it any less 
true, — does not that feeling make it more true, that 
such a nature is wronged by base and selfish passions ? 
Or, because it is a man's self, because it is his own 
soul that he has most injured ; because he has not only 
wronged others, but ruined himself ; is his course any 
the less guilty, or unhappy, or unnatural ? 

I say, unnatural ; and this is a point on which I 
wish to insist, in the consideration of that wrong which 
the moral offender does to himself. The sinner, I say, 
is to be pronounced an unnatural being. He has cast 
off the government of those powers of his nature, which 
as being the loftiest, have the best right to reign over 
him, the government, that is to say, of his intellectual 
and moral faculties ; and has yielded himself to meaner 
appetites. Those meaner appetites, though they be- 
long to his nature, have no right, and he knows they 
have no right, to govern him. The rightful authority, 



THE WRONG WHICH SIX DOES IT. 



43 



the lawful sovereignty belongs, and he knows that it 
belongs, not to sense, but to conscience. To rebel 
against this, is to sin against nature. It is to rebel 
against nature's order. It is to rebel against the gov- 
ernment that God has set up within him. It is to 
obey, not venerable authority, but the faction which 
his passions have made within him. 

Thus violence and misrule are always the part of 
transgression. Nay, every sin — I do not mean now 
the natural and unavoidable imperfection of a weak 
and ignorant being — but every wilful moral offence is 
a monstrous excess and excrescence in the mind, a 
hideous deformity, a loathsome disease, a destruction, 
so far as it goes, of the purposes for which our nature 
was made. As well might you say of the diseased 
plant or tree, which is wasting all its vigour on the 
growth of one huge and unsightly deformity, that it is 
in a natural condition. Grant that the natural powers 
of the plant or tree are converted, or rather perverted 
to this misuse, and help to produce this deformity : yet 
the deformity is not natural. Grant that evil is the 
possible, or supposable, or that it is the actual, nay, 
and in this world, the common, result of moral free- 
dom. But it is evidently not the just and legitimate 
result ; it is not the fair and natural result ; it violates 
all moral powers and responsibilities. If the mechan- 
ism of a vast manufactory, were thrown into sudden 
disorder, the power which propels it might, indeed, 
spread destruction throughout the whole work; but 
would that be the natural course of things ; the result 
for which the fabric was made ? So passion, not in its 
natural state, but still natural passion, in its unnat- 
ural state of excess and fury, may spread disorder 
and destruction through the moral system ; but wreck 



44 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



and ruin are not the proper order of any nature, 
whether material or moral. 

The idea against which I am now contending, that 
evil is natural to us, and, in fact, that nothing else is 
natural ; this popular and prevailing idea is one, it 
seems to me, so fearful and fatal in its bearings — is 
one of such comprehensive and radical mischief, as to 
infect the religious state of all mankind, and to over- 
shadow, almost with despair, the moral prospects of 
the world. There is no error, theological or moral, 
that appears to me, so destructive as this. There is 
nothing that lies so near the very basis of all moral 
reform and spiritual improvement as this. 

If it were a matter of mere doctrine it would be of 
less consequence. But it is a matter of habitual feel- 
ing, I fear, and of deep-settled opinion. The world, 
alas ! is not only in the sad and awful condition of 
being filled with evil, and filled with misery in conse- 
quence, but of thinking that this is the natural order 
of things. Sin is a thing of course ; it is taken for 
granted that it must exist very much in the way that 
it does ; and men are every where easy about it : they 
are every where sinking into w T orldliness and vice as 
if they were acting out the principles of their moral 
constitution, and almost as if they were fulfilling the 
will of God. And thus it comes to pass, that that 
which should fill the world with grief and astonish- 
ment and horror, beyond all things else most horrible 
and lamentable, is regarded with perfect apathy as a 
thing natural and necessary. Why, my brethren, if 
but the animal creation were found, on a sudden, diso- 
bedient to the principles of their nature ; if they were 
ceasing to regard the guiding instincts with which they 
are endowed, and were rushing into universal mad- 



THE WRONG WHICH SIX DOES IT. 



45 



ness, the whole world would stand aghast at the spec- 
tacle. But multitudes in the rational creation, disobey 
a higher law and forsake a more sacred guidance ; they 
degrade themselves below the beasts, or make them- 
selves as entirely creatures of this world : they plunge 
into excess and profligacy ; they bow down divine and 
immortal faculties to the basest uses ; and there is no 
wonder, there is no horror, there is no consciousness 
of the wrong done to themselves. They say, " it is the 
natural course of things," as if they had solved the 
whole problem of moral evil. They say, "it is the 
way of the world," almost as if they thought it was the 
order of Providence. They say, " it is what men are," 
almost as if they thought it was what men were de- 
signed to be. And thus ends their comment, and with 
it, all reasonable endeavour to make themselves better 
and happier. 

If this state of prevailing opinion be as certainly 
erroneous, as it is evidently dangerous, it is of the last 
importance that every resistance, however feeble, should 
be offered to its fatal tendencies. Let us therefore con- 
sider, a little more in detail, the wrong which sin does 
to human nature. I say then, that it does a wrong to 
every natural faculty and power of the mind. 

Sin does a wrong to reason. There are instances, 
and not a few, in which it absolutely destroys reason. 
There are other and more numerous cases, in which it 
employs that faculty, but employs it in a toil most 
degrading to its nature. There is reasoning, indeed, 
in the mind of a miser ; the solemn arithmetic of profit 
and loss. There is reasoning in the schemes of un- 
scrupulous ambition ; the absorbing and agitating 
intrigue for office or honour. There is reasoning upon 
the modes of sensual pleasure ; and the whole power 



46 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



of a very acute mind is sometimes employed and ab- 
sorbed, in plans and projects and imaginations of evil 
indulgence. But what an unnatural desecration is it, 
for reason, sovereign, majestic, all comprehending 
reason, to contract its boundless range to the measure 
of what the hand can grasp ; to be sunk so low, as to 
idolize outward or sensitive good ; to make its god, not 
indeed of wood or stone, but of a sense, or a nerve ! 
What a prostration of immortal reason is it, to bend its 
whole power to the poor and pitiful uses, which sinful 
indulgence demands of it ! 

Sin is a kind of insanity. So far as it goes, it makes 
man an irrational creature : it makes him a fool. The 
consummation of evil is, ever, and in every form, the 
extreme of folly. And it is that most pitiable folly 
w r hich is puffed up with arrogance and self-sufficiency. 
Sin degrades, it impoverishes, it beggars the soul ; and 
yet the soul in this very condition, blesses itself in its 
superior endowments and happy fortune. Yes, every 
sinner is a beggar : as truly as the most needy and 
desperate mendicant. He begs for a precarious happi- 
ness ; he begs it of his possessions or his coffers, that 
cannot give it ; he begs it of every passing trifle and 
pleasure ; he begs it of things most empty and uncer- 
tain, — of every vanity, of every shout of praise in the 
vacant air ; of every wandering eye he begs its hom- 
age : he wants these things, he wants them for happi- 
ness ; he wants them to satisfy the craving soul ; and 
yet he imagines that he is very fortunate ; he accounts 
himself wise, or great, or honourable, or rich, increased 
in goods, and in need of nothing. The infatuation of 
the inebriate man, who is elated and gay, just when 
he ought to be most depressed and sad, we very well 
understand. But it is just as true of every man that 



THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT. 



47 



is intoxicated by any of his senses or passions, by 
wealth, or honour, or pleasure, that he is infatuated ; 
that he has abjured reason. 

What clearer dictate of reason is there than to pre- 
fer the greater good, to the lesser good. But every 
offender, every sensualist, every avaricious man, sacri- 
fices the greater good, the happiness of virtue and piety, 
for the lesser good, which he finds in his senses or in 
the perishing world. Nor, is this the strongest view 
of the case. He sacrifices the greater for the less, 
without any necessity for it. He might have both. 
He gives up heaven for earth, when in the best sense, 
he might, I repeat, have both. A pure mind can de- 
rive more enjoyment from this world, and from the 
senses, than an impure mind. This is true even of 
the lowest senses. But there are other senses, besides 
these ; and the pleasures of the epicure are far from 
equalling even in intensity, those which piety draws 
from the glories of vision, and the melodies of sound ; 
ministers as they are of thoughts and feelings, that 
swell far beyond the measure of all worldly joy. 

The love of happiness might properly be treated as 
a separate part of our nature, and I had intended, 
indeed, to speak of it distinctly ; to speak of the meagre 
and miserable provision which unholy gratification 
makes for it : and yet more of the cruel wrong which 
is done to this eager and craving love of happiness. 
But as I have fallen on this topic, and find the space 
that belongs to me diminishing, I must content myself 
with a single suggestion. 

What bad man ever desired that his child should be 
like himself ? Vice is said to wear an alluring aspect ; 
and many a heedless youth, alas ! rushes into its em- 
braces for happiness ; but what vicious man, what 
corrupt and dissolute man, ever desired that his child 



48 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



should walk in his steps ? And what a testimony is 
this, what a clear and disinterested testimony, to the 
unhappiness of a sinful course ! Yes, it is the bad 
man that often feels an interest about the virtue of 
others, beyond all, perhaps, that good men feel — feels 
an intensity, an agony of desire for his children, that 
they may be brought up virtuously ; that they may 
never, never be, such as he is ! 

How truly, and with what striking emphasis, did 
the venerable Cranmer reply, when told that a certain 
man had cheated him, " No, he has cheated himself." 
Every bad man, every dishonest man, every corrupt 
man, cheats himself of a good, far dearer than any 
advantage that he obtains over his neighbour. Others 
he may injure, abuse and delude ; but, another thing 
is true, though commonly forgotten, and that is, that 
he deludes himself, abuses himself, injures himself, 
more than he does all other men. 

In the next place, sin does a wrong to conscience. 
There is a conscience in every man, which is as truly 
a part of his nature, as reason or memory. The offen- 
der against this, therefore, violates no unknown law, 
nor impracticable rule. From the very teaching of 
his nature, he knows what is right, and he knows that 
he can do it ; and his very nature, therefore, instead 
of furnishing him with apologies for wilful wrong, 
holds him inexcusable. Inexcusable, I am aware, is 
a strong word ; and when I have looked at mankind, 
and seen the ways in which they are instructed, edu- 
cated and influenced, I have been disposed to feel as 
if there were palliations. But on the other hand, when 
I consider how strong is the voice of nature in a man, 
how sharp and piercing is the work of a restraining 
and condemning conscience, how loud and terrible is 
its remonstrance, what a peculiar, what a heaven-com- 



THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT. 49 

missioned anguish it sometimes inflicts upon the guilty 
man ; I am compelled to say, despite of all bad teach- 
ing, and bad influence, " this being is utterly inexcusa- 
ble." For, I repeat it, there is a conscience in men. 
I cannot admit that human nature ever chooses evil 
as such. It seeks for good, for gratification, indeed. 
But take the vilest man that lives ; and if it were so, 
that he could obtain the gratification he seeks — be it 
property or sensual pleasure — that he could obtain it, 
honestly and innocently, he would greatly prefer it, on 
such terms. This shows that there is conscience in 
him. But he will have the desired gratification. And 
to obtain it, he sets his foot upon that conscience, and 
crushes it down to dishonour and agony, worse than 
death. Ah ! my brethren, we who sit in our closets, 
talk about vice, and dishonesty, and bloody crime, and 
draw dark pictures of them ; cold and lifeless, though 
dark pictures. But we little know, perhaps, of what 
we speak. The heart, all conscious and alive to the 
truth, would smile in bitterness and derision, at the 
feebleness of our description. And could that heart 
speak ; could " the bosom black as death " send forth 
its voice of living agony in our holy places, it would 
rend the vaulted arches of every sanctuary, with the 
cry of a pierced, and wounded, and wronged, and ruined 
nature ! 

Finally, sin does a wrong to the affections. How 
does it mar even that image of the affections, that 
rapysterious shrine from which their revealings flash 
forth, " the human face divine bereaving the world 
of more than half its beauty ! Can you ever behold 
sullenness clouding the clear, fair brow of childhood, 
or the flushed cheek of anger, or the averted and 
writhen features of envy, or the dim and sunken eye 
and haggard aspect of vice, or the red signals of bloated 
5 



50 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



excess hung out on every feature, proclaiming the fire 
that is consuming within — without feeling that sin is 
the despoiler of all that the affections make most hal- 
lowed and beautiful ? 

But these are only indications of the wrong that is 
done, and the ruin that is wrought in the heart. Na- 
ture has made our affections to be full of tenderness, 
to be sensitive and alive to every touch, to cling to 
their cherished objects with a grasp, from which 
nothing but cruel violence can sever them. We hear 
much, I know, of the coldness of the world ; but T 
cannot believe much that I hear ; nor is it perhaps 
meant, in any sense, that denies to man naturally, the 
most powerful affections ; affections that demand the 
most gentle and considerate treatment. Human love 
— I am ready to exclaim — how strong is it ! What 
yearnings are there of parental fondness, of filial grati- 
tude, of social kindness, every where ! What impa- 
tient asking of ten thousand hearts for the love of 
others ; not for their gold, not for their praise, but for 
their love ! 

But sin enters into this world of the affections, and 
spreads around the death-like coldness of distrust : the 
word of anger falls like a blow upon the heart : or 
avarice hardens the heart against every finer feeling ; 
or the insane merriment, or the sullen stupor of the 
inebriate man, falls like a thunder-bolt amidst the 
circle of kindred and children. Oh ! the hearts, where 
sin is to do its work, should be harder than the netl^r 
mill-stone ; yet it enters in among affections, all warm, 
all sensitive, all gushing forth in tenderness ; and deaf 
to all their pleadings, it does its work, as if it were 
some demon of wrath that knew no pity, and heard no 
groans, and felt no relenting. 

But I must not leave this subject to be regarded as 



THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT. 51 



if it were only a matter for abstract or curious specu- 
lation. It goes beyond reasoning : it goes to the 
conscience, and demands penitence and humiliation. 

For of what, in this view, is the sensualist guilty ? 
He is guilty not merely of indulging the appetites of 
his body ; but of sacrificing to that body, a soul ! — I 
speak literally — of sacrificing to that body a soul ; yes, 
of sacrificing all the transcendent and boundless crea- 
tion of God in his nature, to one single nerve of his 
perishing frame. The brightest emanation of God, a 
flame from the everlasting altar, burns within him ; 
and he voluntarily spreads over it, a fleshy veil, a veil 
of appetites, a veil of thick darkness ; and if from its 
awful folds, one beam of the unholy and insufferable 
light within breaks forth, he closes his eyes, and quickly 
spreads another covering of wilful delusion over it, and 
utterly refuses to see that light, though it flashes upon 
him from the shrine of the Divinity. There is, indeed, 
a peculiarity in the sensuality of a man, distinguishing 
it from the sensual gratification of which an animal is 
capable, and which, many men are exalted above the 
brutes, only to turn to the basest uses. The sensual 
pleasures of a human being derive a quality from the 
mind. They are probably more intense, through the 
co-operating action of the mind. The appetite of 
hunger or thirst, for instance, is doubtless the same in 
both animal and man, and its gratification the same 
in kind ; but the mind communicates to it a greater 
intensity. To a certain extent, this is unquestionably 
natural and lawful. But the mind, finding that it has 
this power, and that by absorption hi sense, by gloating 
over its objects, it can for a time, add something to their 
enjoyment ; the mind, I say, surrenders itself to the 
base and ignoble ministry. The angel in man does 
homage to the brute in man. Reason toils for sense ; 



52 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



the imagination panders for appetite; and even the 
conscience — that no faculty may be left undebased— 
the divine conscience strives to spread around the 
loathsome forms of voluptuousness, a haze of moral 
beauty — calling intoxication, enthusiasm ; and revel- 
ling, good fellowship ; and dignifying every species of 
indulgence with some name that is holy. 

Of what, again, is the miser, and of what is every 
inordinately covetous man, guilty ? Conversant as he 
may be with every species of trade and traffic, there is 
one kind of barter, coming yet nearer to his interest, 
but of which, perchance, he has never thought. He 
barters virtue for gain ! That is the stupendous moral 
traffic in which he is engaged. The very attributes of 
the mind are made a part of the stock, in the awful 
trade of avarice. And if its account-book were to state 
truly the whole of every transaction, it would often stand 
thus : " Gained, my hundreds or my thousands ; lost, 
the rectitude and peace of my conscience " Gained, 
a great bargain, driven hard ; lost, in the same pro- 
portion, the generosity and kindness of my affections." 
" Credit "—and what strife is there for that ultimate 
item, for that final record ? — " Credit, by an immense 
fortune but on the opposing page, the last page of 
that moral, as truly as mercantile account, I read those 
words, written not in golden capitals, but in letters of 
fire — " a lost soul P 

Oh ! my brethren, it is a pitiable desecration of such 
a nature as ours to give it up to the world. Some baser 
thing might have been given, without regret ; but to 
bow down reason and conscience, to bind them to the 
clods of earth ; to contract those faculties that spread 
themselves out beyond the world, even to infinity — to 
contract them to w T orldly trifles ; it is pitiable ; it is 
something to mourn and to weep over. He who sits 



THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT. 53 

down in a dungeon which another has made, has not 
such cause to bewail himself, as he who sits down in 
the dungeon which he has thus made for himself. 
Poverty and destitution are sad things ; but there is 
no such poverty, there is no such destitution, as that 
of a covetous and worldly heart. Poverty is a sad 
thing, but there is no man so poor, as he who is poor 
in his affections and virtues. Many a house is full, 
where the mind is unfurnished and the heart is empty ; 
and no hovel of mere penury ever ought to be so sad 
as that house. Behold, it is left desolate ; to the im- 
mortal it is left desolate, as the chambers of death. 
Death is there indeed ; and it is the death of the soul ! 

But not to dwell longer upon particular forms of 
evil: of what, let us ask, is the man guilty 7 Who 
is it that is thus guilty 7 To say that he is noble in 
his nature, has been sometimes thought a dangerous 
laxity of doctrine, a proud assumption of merit, " a 
flattering unction*' laid to the soul. But what kind of 
flattery is it, to say to a man, " you were made but 
little lower than the angels ; you might have been 
rising to the state of angels ; and you have made — 
what have you made yourself? What you are; a 
slave to the world ; a slave to sense ; a slave to mas- 
ters baser than nature made them, to vitiated sense, 
and a corrupt and vain world !" Alas ! the irony im- 
plied in such flattery as this, is not needed to add 
poignancy to conviction. Boundless capacities shrunk 
to worse than infantile imbecility ! immortal faculties 
made toilers for the vanities of a moment ! a glorious 
nature sunk to a willing fellowship with evil ! — it needs 
no exaggeration, but only simple statement, to make 
this a sad and afflicting case. Ill enough had it been 
for us if we had been made a depraved and degraded 
race. Well might the world even then, have sat down 
5* 



54 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



in sackcloth and sorrow; though repentance could 
properly have made no part of its sorrow. But ill is 
it indeed, if we have made ourselves the sinful and 
unhappy beings that we are ; if we have given our- 
selves the wounds, which have brought languishment 
and debility and distress upon us ! What keen regret 
and remorse would any one of us feel, if in a fit of 
passion, he had destroyed his own right arm, or had 
planted in it a lingering wound ! And yet this, and 
this last especially, is what every offender does to some 
faculty of his nature. 

But this is not all. Ill enough had it been for us, if 
we had wrought out evil from nothing ; if from a 
nature negative and indifferent to the result, we had 
brought forth the fruits of guilt and misery. But if we 
have wronged, if we have wrested from its true bias, 
a nature made for heavenly ends ; if it was all beauti- 
ful in God's design and in our capacity, and we have 
made it all base, so that human nature, alas ! is but the 
by- word of the satirist, and a mark for the scorner ; if 
affections that might have been sweet and puse almost 
as the thoughts of angels, have been soured and 
embittered and turned to wrath, even in the homes 
of human kindness ; if the very senses have been bru- 
talized and degraded, and changed from ministers of 
pleasure to inflictors of pain : and yet more, if all the 
dread authority of reason has been denied, and all the 
sublime sanctity of conscience has been set at naught 
in this downward course ; and yet once more, if all 
these things, not chimerical, not visionary, are actu- 
ally witnessed, are matters of history, in ten thousand 
dwellings, around us ; ah ! if they are actually exist- 
ing, my brethren, in you and in me ! — and finally, if 
uniting together, these causes of depravation have 
spread a flood of misery over the world, and there 



THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT. 55 

are sorrows and sighings and tears in all the habita- 
tions of men, all proceeding from this one cause ; 
then, I say, shall penitence be thought a strange and 
uncalled-for emotion? Shall it be thought strange 
that the first great demand of the Gospel, should be 
for repentance ? Shall it be thought strange that a 
man should sit down and weep bitterly for his sins ; 
so strange that his acquaintances shall ask, " what 
hath he done ?" or shall conclude that he is going mad 
with fanaticism, or is on the point of losing his reason ? 
No, truly ; the dread infatuation is on the part of those 
who weep not? It is the negligent world, that is 
fanatical and frantic in the pursuit of unholy indul- 
gences and unsatisfying pleasures. It is such a world 
refusing to weep over its sins and miseries, that is 
fatally deranged. Repentance, my brethren, shall it 
be thought a virtue difficult of exercise? What can the 
world sorrow for, if not for the cause of all sorrow ? 
What is to awaken grief, if not guilt and shame ? 
Where shall the human heart pour out its tears, if not 
on those desolations which have been of its own 
creating ? 

How fitly is it written, and in language none too 
strong, that " the sacrifices of God are a broken and 
contrite heart." And how encouragingly is it written 
also, " a broken and contrite heart, thou wilt not de- 
spise." " Oh ! Israel," saith again the sacred word, 
" Oh, Israel ! thou hast destroyed thyself ; but in me is 
thine help found." 



IV. 



ON THE ADAPTATION WHICH RELIGION, TO BE TRUE 
AND USEFUL, SHOULD HAVE TO HUMAN NATURE. 

A BRUISED REED SHALL HE NOT BREAK, AND THE SMOKING FLAX SHALL HB 

not q/uench. — Isaiah xlii. 3. 

This was spoken by prophecy of our Saviour, and 
is commonly considered as one of the many passages, 
which either prefigure or describe, the considerate and 
gracious adaptation of his religion, to the wants and 
weaknesses of human nature. This adaptation of 
Christianity to the wants of the mind, is, indeed a 
topic that has been much, and very justly insisted on, 
as an evidence of its truth. 

I wish however, in the present discourse, to place 
this subject before you in a light somewhat different, 
perhaps, from that in which it has usually been viewed. 
If Christianity is suited to the wants of our nature, it 
is proper to consider what our nature needs. I shall 
therefore in the following discourse, give considerable 
prominence to this inquiry. The wants of our nature 
are various. I shall undertake to show in several re- 
spects, what a religion that is adapted to these wants, 
should be. In the same connection, I shall undertake 
to show that Christianity is such a religion. 

This course of inquiry, I believe, will elicit some 
just views of religious truth, and will enable us to 
judge whether our own views of it are just. My ob- 
ject in it, is to present some temperate and comprehen- 



THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 57 

sive views of religion, which shall be seen at once to 
meet the necessities of our nature, and to accord with 
the spirit of the Christian religion. 

Nothing, it w ould seem, could be more obvious, than 
that a religion for human beings, should be suited to 
human beings ; not to angels, nor to demons ; not to a 
fictitious order of creatures ; not to the inhabitants of 
some other world ; but to men — to men of this world, 
of this state and situation in which we are placed, of 
this nature which is given us ; to me?i, with all their 
passions and affections warm and alive, and all their 
weaknesses and wants and fears, about them. And 
yet evident and reasonable as all this is, nothing has 
been more common, than for religion to fail of this 
very adaptation. Sometimes, it has been made a 
quality all softness, all mercy and gentleness; some- 
thing joyous and cheering, light and easy, as if it were 
designed for angels. At others, it has been clothed 
with features as dark and malignant, as if it belonged 
to fiends rather than to men. In no remote period, it 
has laid penances on men ; as if their sinews and 
nerves were like the mails of steel, which they wore in 
those days. While the same religion, w T ith strange 
inconsistency, lifted up the reins to their passions, as 
if it had been the age of Stoicism, instead of being the 
age of Chivalry. Alas ! how little has there been 
in the religions of past ages ; how little in the preva- 
lent forms even of the Christian religion, to draw out, 
to expand and brighten, the noble faculties of our 
nature ! How many of the beautiful fruits of human 
affection, have withered away under the cold and 
blighting touch of a scholastic and stern theology ! 
How many fountains of joy in the human heart have 
been sealed and closed up for ever, by the iron hand of 
a gloomy superstition ! How many bright spirits, how 



58 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



many comely and noble natures, have been marred 
and crushed, by the artificial, the crude and rough 
dealing of religious phrenzy and fanaticism ! 

It is suitable, then, it is expedient, to consider the 
adaptation which religion to be true and useful ought 
to have to human nature. It may serve to correct 
errors. It may serve to guide those who are asking 
what ideas of religion they are to entertain, what 
sentiments they are to embrace ; what conduct to 
pursue. 

In entering upon this subject, let me offer one lead- 
ing observation, and afterwards proceed to some par- 
ticulars. 

I. I say, then, in the first place, that religion should 
be adapted to our whole nature. It should remember 
that we have understandings ; and it should be a ra- 
tional religion. It should remember that we have 
feelings ; and it should be an earnest and fervent reli- 
gion. It should remember that our feelings revolt at 
violence, and are all alive to tenderness ; and it should 
be gentle, ready to entreat, and full of mercy. It should 
remember too that our feelings naturally lean to self- 
indulgence, and it should be, in its gentleness, strict 
and solemn. It should in a due proportion address all 
our faculties. 

Most of the erroneous forms of religious sentiment 
that prevail in the Christian world, have arisen from 
the predominance that has been given to some one 
part of our nature, in the matters of spiritual concern- 
ment. Some religions have been all speculation, all 
doctrine, all theology ; and. as you might expect, they 
have been cold, barren and dead. Others have been 
all feeling ; and have become visionary, wild, and 
extravagant. Some have been all sentiment ; and 
have wanted practical virtue. Others have been all 



THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 



59 



practice ; their advocates have been exclaiming u works 
works ! these are the evidence and test of all good- 
ness." And so, with certain exceptions and qualifica- 
tions, they are. But this substantial character of re- 
ligion, this hold which it really has, upon all the 
active principles of our nature, has been so much, so 
exclusively contended for, that religion has too often 
degenerated into a mere, superficial, decent morality. 

Religion, then, let it be repeated, if it be true and 
just, addresses our whole nature. It addresses the 
active and the contemplative in us ; reason and im- 
agination ; thought and feeling. It is experience : but 
it is conduct too : it is high meditation ; but then 
it is also humble virtue. It is excitement, it is earn- 
estness ; but no less truly, is it calmness. Let me 
dwell upon this last point a moment. It is not un- 
common to hear it said that excitement is a very bad 
thing, and that true religion is calm. And yet it 
would seem as if, by others, repose was regarded as 
deadly to the soul, and as if the only safety lay in a 
tremendous agitation. Now what saith our nature — 
for the being that is the very subject of this varying 
discipline may surely be allowed to speak — what saith 
our nature to these different advisers ? It says, I think, 
that both are to a certain extent wrong, and both, to 
a certain extent right. That is to say, human nature 
requires, in their due proportion, both excitement and 
tranquillity. Our minds need a complex and blended 
influence ; need to be at once aroused and chastened, 
to be at the same time quickened and subdued ; need 
to be impelled, and yet guided ; need to be humbled 
no doubt, and that deeply, but not that only, as it 
seems to be commonly thought — humbled, I say, and 
yet supported : need to be bowed down in humility, 
and yet strengthened in trust : need to be nerved to 



60 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



endurance at one time, and at another to be transport- 
ed with joy. Let religion, let the reasonable and gra- 
cious doctrine of Jesus Christ, come to us with these 
adaptations ; generous to expand our affections, strict 
to restrain our passions ; plastic to mould our temper, 
strong, ay, strong to control our will. Let religion be 
thus welcomed to every true principle and passion of 
our nature. Let it touch all the springs of intellectual 
and of moral life. Let it penetrate to every hidden re- 
cess of the soul, and bring forth ail its powers, and 
enlighten, inspire, perfect them. 

I hardly need say, that the Christian religion is thus 
adapted to our whole nature. Its evidences address 
themselves to our sober judgment. Its precepts com- 
mend themselves to our consciences. It imparts light 
to our understandings, and fervour to our affections. 
It speaks gently to our repentance ; but terribly to 
our disobedience. It really does that for us, which 
religion should do. It does arouse, and chasten, quick- 
en and subdue, impel and guide, humble and yet sup- 
port : it arms us with fortitude, and it transports us 
with joy. It is profitable for the life that now is, and 
for that, which is to come. 

II. But I must pass now, to observe, that there are 
more particular adaptations which religion should have, 
and w T hich the Gospel actually has, to the condition 
of human nature, and to the various degrees of its 
improvement. 

One of the circumstances of our moral condition is 
danger. Religion then should be a guardian, and a vigi- 
lant guardian ; and let us be assured that the Gospel 
is such. Such emphatically do we read. If we can- 
not bear a religion that admonishes us, watches over 
us, warns us., restrains us ; let us be assured that we 
cannot bear a religion that will save us. Religion 



THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 61 



should be the keeper of the soul ; and without such a 
keeper, in the slow and undermining process of temp- 
tation, or amidst the sudden and strong assaults of 
passion, it will be overcome and lost. 

Again, the human condition is one of weakness. 
There are weak points, where religion should be sta- 
tioned to support and strengthen us. Points, did I say ? 
Are we not encompassed with weakness ? Where, in 
the whole circle of our spiritual interests and affec- 
tions, are we not exposed, and vulnerable? Where 
have we not need to set up the barriers of habit, and 
to build the strongest defences, with which resolutions 
and vows and prayers can surround us ? Where, and 
wherein, I ask again, is any man safe ? What virtue 
of any man is secure from frailty ? What strong pur- 
pose of his is not liable to failure ? What affection of 
his heart can say, " I have strength, I am established, 
and nothing can move me." How weak is man in 
trouble, in perplexity, in doubt ; how weak in afflic- 
tion, or when sickness bows the spirit, or when ap- 
proaching death is unloosing all the bands of his pride 
and self-reliance ! And whose spirit does not some- 
times faint under its intrinsic weakness, under its na- 
tive frailty, and the burthen and pressure of its neces- 
sities ? Religion then should bring supply, and sup- 
port, and strength to the soul ; and the Gospel does 
bring supply, and support, and strength. And it thus 
meets a universal want. Every mind wants the sta- 
bility which principle gives, wants the comfort which 
piety gives ; wants it continually, in all the varying 
experience of life. 

I have said, also, that religion should be adapted to 
the various degrees of mental improvement, and I 
may add, to the diversities of temperament. Now 
there are sluggish natures that need to be aroused. 
6 



62 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



All the machinery of spiritual terror can scarce be too 
much to arouse some persons ; though it may indeed 
be very improperly applied. But on the contrary, there 
are minds so excitable and sensitive, that religion 
should come to them with all its sobering and tran- 
quillizing influence. In how many cases do we wit- 
ness this ! How many are there whose minds are 
chilled, or stupified by denunciation ! How many are 
repelled by severity, or crushed by a weight of fear 
and anxiety ! How many such are there, that need 
a helping hand to be stretched out to them ; that need 
to be raised, and soothed, and comforted ; that need 
to be won with gentleness, and cheered with prom- 
ises. The Gospel has terrors, indeed, but it is not 
all terror : and its most awful rebukes soften into 
pity, over the fearful, the dejected, the anxious and 
humble. 

Bat the most striking circumstance in the adapta- 
tion of religion to the different decrees of mental im- 
provement, is its character as supplying not merely 
the general necessities, but the conscious wants of the 
mind. There may be some who have never been 
conscious of these intrinsic wants, though they spring 
from human nature and must be sooner or later felt. 
To the very young, or to the unreflecting, religion can 
be scarcely any thing more, perhaps, than direction. 
It says, " do this, and do that ; and refrain from this 
gratification, and beware of that danger." It is chiefly 
a set of rules and precepts to them. Speak to them 
of religion as the grand resort of the mind, as that 
which meets its inward necessities, supplies its deep- 
felt wants, fills its capacious desires ; and they do not 
well understand you ; or they do not understand, why 
this view of the subject should be so interesting to 
you. But another mind shall be bound to the Gospel 



THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 63 

by nothing so much as by its wants. It craves some- 
thing, thus vast, glorious, infinite, and eternal. It 
sought, sought long perhaps, and anxiously, for some- 
• thing thus satisfying ; and it has found what it long 
and painfully sought, in the teachings of Jesus, in 
the love of God, in that world of spiritual thoughts 
and objects which the great teacher has opened, in 
that solemn and majestic vision of immortality which 
he has brought to light. To such a religion the soul 
clings with a peace and satisfaction never to be ex- 
pressed, never to be uttered. It says, " to whom shall 
I go — to whom shall I go ? thou, O blessed religion, 
minister and messenger from heaven ! — thou hast the 
words of eternal life, of eternal joy !" The language 
which proclaims the sufficiency of religion, which sets 
forth the attraction and the greatness of it, as supply- 
ing the great intellectual want, is no chimerical lan- 
guage ; it is not merely a familiar language ; but is 
intimate with the deepest and the dearest feelings of 
the heart. 

In descending to the more specific applications of 
the principle of religion to human nature, I must con- 
tent myself for the present, with one further observa- 
tion ; and that is, that it meets and mingles with all 
the varieties of natural temperament and disposition. 

Religion should not propose to break up all the di- 
versities of individual character ; and Christianity does 
not propose this. It did not propose this, even when 
it first broke upon the world with manifestation and 
miracle. It allowed the rash and forward Peter, the 
timid and doubting Thomas, the mild and affectionate 
John, the resolute and fervent Paul, still to retain all 
their peculiarities of character. The way of becoming 
religious, or interested in religion, was not the same to 
all. There was Cornelius, the Pagan, whose " alms 



64 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



and prayers were accepted f and there were others, 
who became Christians, " without so much as hearing: 
that there was any Holy Ghost." There were the im- 
mediate disciples of our Lord, who, through a course * 
of gradual teaching, came to apprehend his spiritual 
kingdom ; and there was Paul, to whom this know- 
ledge came by miracle, and with a light brighter than 
the sun. There was the terrified jailer who fell down 
trembling and said, " what must I do to be saved ?" 
and there was the cautious and inquiring Nicodemus, 
who, as if he had been reflecting on the matter, said, 
" we know that thou art a teacher come from God, for 
no man can do these miracles that thou doest, except 
God be with him/' 

Now it is painful to observe at this day, how little 
of this individuality there is, in the prevailing and 
popular experience of religion. A certain process is 
pointed out, a certain result is described ; particular 
views and feelings are insisted on, as the only right 
and true state of mind ; and every man strives to bring 
himself through the required process to the given re- 
sult. It is common, indeed, to observe, that if you read 
one account of a conversion, one account of a relig- 
ious excitement, you have all. I charge not this to any 
particular set of opinions, though it may be found to 
have been connected with some creeds more than with 
others ; but it results too, from the very weakness of 
human nature. One man leans on the experience of 
another, and it contributes to his satisfaction, of course 
to have the same experience. How refreshing is it 
amidst this dull and artificial uniformity, to meet with 
a man whose religion is his own ; who has thought and 
felt for himself ; who has not propped up his hopes on 
other men's opinions : who has been willing to com- 
mune with the spirit of religion and of God, alone, 



THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 65 



and who brings forth to you the fruits of his experi- 
ence, fresh and original, and is not much concerned 
for your judgment of them, provided they have nour- 
ished and comforted himself. I would not desire that 
every man should view all the matters of piety, as I 
do ; but would rather that every man should bring 
the results of his own individual conviction, to aid the 
common cause of right knowledge and judgment. 

In the diversities of character and situation that 
exists, there will naturally be diversities of religious 
experience. Some, as I have said before, are consti- 
tutionally lively, and others serious ; some are ardent 
and others moderate : some, also, are inclined to be 
social, and others to be retired. Knowledge and ig- 
norance, too, and refinement and rudeness of charac- 
ter, are cases to be provided for. And a true and 
thorough religion — this is the special observation I 
wish to make on the diversities of character — a true 
and thorough religion, when it enters the mind, will 
show itself by its naturally blending and mingling 
with the mind as it is; it will sit easily upon the char- 
acter ; it will take forms in accordance, not with the 
bad, but with the constitutional tempers and disposi- 
tions it finds in its subjects. 

Nay, I will say yet further, that religion ought not 
to repress the natural buoyancy of our affections, the 
innocent gaiety of the heart. True religion was not 
designed to do this. Undoubtedly, it will discriminate. 
It will check what is extravagant in us, all tumultu- 
ous and excessive joy about acquisitions of little con- 
sequence, or of doubtful utility to us : it will correct 
what is deformed ; it will uproot what is hurtful. But 
there is a native buoyancy of the heart, the meed of 
youth, or of health, w r hich is a sensation of our animal 
nature, a tendency of our being. This, true religion 
6* 



66 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



does not propose to withstand. It does not war 
against our nature. As well should the cultivator of 
a beautiful and variegated garden, cut up all the flow- 
ers in it, or lay weights and encumbrances on them, 
lest they should be too flourishing and fair. Religion 
is designed for the culture of our natural faculties, not 
for their eradication ! 

It would be easy now, did the time permit, to illus- 
trate the views which have been presented, by a refer- 
ence to the teachings of our Saviour. He did not ad- 
dress one passion or part of our nature alone, or chiefly. 
There was no one manner of address ; and we feel 
sure as we read, that there was no one tone. He did 
not confine himself to any one class of subjects. He 
was not always speaking of death, nor of judgment, 
nor of eternity ; frequently and solemnly as he spoke 
of them. He was not always speaking of the state of 
the sinner, nor of repentance and the new heart ; 
though on these subjects too he delivered his solemn 
message. There was a varied adaptation, in his dis- 
courses, to every condition of mind, and every duty of 
life, and every situation in which his hearers were 
placed. Neither did the preaching of our Saviour pos- 
sess, exclusively, any one moral complexion. It was 
not terror only, nor promise only ; it was not exclu- 
sively severity nor gentleness ; but it was each one of 
them in its place, and all of them always subdued to 
the tone of perfect sobriety. At one time we hear 
him saying, with lofty self-respect, " neither tell I you 
by what authority I do these things at another with 
all the majesty of the Son of God, we hear him, in 
reply to the fatal question of the judgment-hall, " Art 
thou the Christ V — we hear him say, " I am ; and 
hereafter ye shall see the Son of man seated on the 
throne of power and coming in the clouds of heaven." 



THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 67 

But it is the same voice that says, " come unto me, all 
ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give 
you rest ; take my yoke which is easy, and my bur- 
den which is light, and ye shall find rest to your souls." 
At one time he speaks in the language of terror, and 
says, " fear not them who after that they have killed the 
body, have no more that they can do ; but fear Him 
who is able to cast both soul and body into hell, yea, 
I say into you, fear him." But at another time, the 
awful admonisher breaks out into the pathetic excla- 
mation, " Oh ! Jerusalem, Jerusalem ! how often would 
I have gathered your children, even as a hen gather- 
eth her brood under her w r ings, but ye would not." 

If I might be permitted now, to add a suggestion of 
an advisory nature, it would be in the language of an 
apostle ; " let your moderation be known to all men." 
The true religion, the true excellence of character, 
requires that we should hold all the principles and af- 
fections of our nature in a due subordination and pro 
portion to each other ; that we should subdue all the 
clamoring voices of passion and desire, of fear and 
hope, of joy and sorrow, to complete harmony ; that 
we should regard and cultivate our nature as a tvhole. 
Almost all error is some truth, carried to excess, or 
diminished from its proper magnitude. Almost all evil 
is some good or useful principle, suffered to be immod- 
erate and ungovernable, or suppressed and denied 
its proper influence and action. Let, then, moderation 
be a leading trait of our virtue and piety. This is not 
dullness. Nothing is farther from dullness. And no- 
thing, surely, is more beautiful in character, or more 
touching, than to see a lively and intense sensibility 
controlled by the judgment ; strong passions subdued 
and softened by reflection ; and on the other hand, to 



68 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



find a vigorous, clear and manly understanding, quick- 
ened by a genuine fervor and enthusiasm. Nothing 
is more wise or more admirable in action, than to be 
resolute and yet calm, earnest and yet self-possessed, de- 
cided and yet modest ; to contend for truth and right 
with meekness and charity ; to go forward in a good 
cause without pretension, to retire with dignity ; to give 
without pride, and to withhold without meanness ; to 
rejoice with moderation, and to suffer with patience. 
And nothing, I may add, was more remarkable in the 
character of our Saviour, than this perfect sobriety, 
consistency, self-control. 

This, therefore, is the perfection of character. This 
will always be found, I believe, to be a late stage in 
the progress of religious worth from its first beginnings. 
It is comparatively easy to be one thing and that 
alone ; to be all zeal, or all reasoning ; all faith or all 
action ; all rapture, or all chilling and captious fault- 
finding. Here novices begin. Thus far they may 
easily go. Thus far men may go, whose character is 
the result of temperament and not of culture ; of head- 
long propensity, and not of careful and conscientious 
discipline. It is easy for the bruised reed to be bro- 
ken. It is easy for the smoking flax to be quenched. 
It is easy to deal harshly and rudely with the matters 
of religious and virtuous experience : to make a hasty 
effort, to have a paroxysm of emotion, to give way to 
a feverish and transient feeling, and then to smother 
and quench all the rising purposes of a better life. 
But true religion comes to us with a wiser and more 
considerate adaptation, — to sustain and strengthen 
the bruised reed of human weakness ; to fan the rising 
flame of virtuous and holy purposes : it comes to revive 
our failing courage, to restrain our wayward passions. 



THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT. 69 

It will not suffer us to go on with our fluctuations and 
our fancies ; with our transient excitements, and mo- 
mentary struggles. It will exert a more abiding, a 
more rational influence. It will make us more faith- 
ful and persevering. It will lay its hand on the very 
energies of our nature, and will take the lead and con- 
trol, the forming and perfecting of them. May we 
find its real and gracious power ! May it lead us in 
the true, the brightening path of the just, till it brings us 
to the perfect day ! 

Oh ! my brethren, we sin against our own peace, we 
have no mercy upon ourselves, when we neglect such 
a religion as this. It is the only wisdom, the only sound- 
ness, the only consistency and harmony of character, 
the only peace and blessedness of mind. We should 
not have our distressing doubts and fears ; we should 
not be so subject as we are to the distracting influences 
of passion, or of the world without us, if we had 
yielded our hearts wholly to the spirit and religion of 
Jesus. It is a religion adapted to us all. To every 
affection, to every state of mind, troubled or joyous, to 
every period of life, it would impart the very influence 
that we need. How surely would it guide our youth, 
and how would it temper, and soften, and sanctify all 
the fervors of youthful affection ! How well would it 
support our age, making it youthful again with the 
fervent hope of immortality ! How would it lead us, 
too, in all the paths of earthly care and business and 
labour, turning the brief and weary courses of worldly 
toil into the ways that are everlasting ! How faithfully 
and how calmly would it conduct us to the everlasting 
abodes ! And how well, in fine, does he, of whom it 
was prophesied that he should not break the bruised 
reed nor quench the smoking flax ; how well does he 



70 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



meet that gracious character, when he says, — shall we 
not listen to him ? — " Come unto me all ye that labour 
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest : take my 
yoke which is easy, and my burden, which is light ; 
learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye 
shall find rest unto your souls." 



V. 



THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO HUMAN NATURE. 

UNTO YOU, 0 MEN, I CALL; AND MY VOICE IS TO THE SONS OF MEN. — PrOV. YUL 4. 

The appeal of religion to human nature, the deep 
wisdom of its instructions to the human heart, the lan- 
guage of power and of cheering with which it is fitted 
to address the inmost soul of man. is never to be under- 
stood, perhaps, till our nature is exalted far beyond its 
present measure. When the voice of wisdom and 
purity shall find an inward wisdom and purity to which 
it can speak, it will be received with a welcome and 
gladness, with a joy beyond all other joy, such as no 
tongue of eloquence has ever expressed, nor the heart 
of worldly sensibility ever yet conceived. It is, there- 
fore, with the most unfeigned diffidence, with the most 
distinct conciousness that my present labour must be 
incipient and imperfect, that I enter upon this great 
theme — the appeal of religion to human nature. 

What ought it to be 7 What has it been ? These 
are the inquiries which I shall pursue. Nor shall I 
attempt to keep them altogether separate in the dis- 
cussion ; since, both the defects and the duties of relig- 
ious instruction may often be best exhibited under 
the same head of discourse. Neither shall I labour to 
speak of religion under that abstract and figurative 
character with which wisdom is personified in the 
context, though that may be occasionally convenient ; 
but whether it be the language of individual reason, or 



72 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



conscience ; whether it be the voice of the parent, or 
of the preacher ; whether it be the language of forms 
or of institutions, I would consider how religion has 
appealed, and how it ought to have appealed, to 
human nature. 

The topics of discourse, under w T hich I shall pursue 
these inquiries, are the following ; in what character 
should religion address us ? To what in us should it 
speak? And how should it deliver its message? 
That is to say, the substance, the subject, and the 
spirit of the appeal, are the topics of our inquiry. I 
cannot, of course, pursue these inquiries beyond the 
point to which the immediate object of my discourse, 
will carry them ; and I am willing to designate that 
point, at once, by saying, that the questions are, 
whether the character in which religion is to appeal 
to us, be moral or not ; whether that in us to w 7 hich it 
chiefly appeals, should be the noblest or the basest 
part of our nature ; and finally, whether the manner 
and spirit of its appeal should be that of confidence or 
distrust, of friendship or hatred. 

I. And with regard to the first question, the answer, 
of . course, is, that the character in which religion 
should address us, is purely moral. As a moral prin- 
ciple, as a principle of rectitude, it must speak to us. 
Institutions, rites, commands, threatenings, promises — • 
all forms of appeal must contain this essence ; they 
must be moral ; they must be holy. 

It may be thought strange that I should insist upon 
a point so obvious, but let me crave your patience. 
What is the most comprehensive form of morality, 
holiness, gratitude, religion ? It is love ; it is good- 
ness. The character of the Supreme Perfection is 
set forth in this one attribute : " God is love." This 
is the very glory of God. For when an ancient servant 



THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT. 73 

desired to " see his glory," the answer to the prayer 
was, that " he caused all his goodness to pass before 
him." 

The character, then, in which religion should ap- 
peal to human nature, is that of simple and essen- 
tial goodness. This, the moral nature of man is 
made to understand and to feel ; and nothing else 
but this. This character, doubtless, has various ex- 
pressions. Sometimes it takes the forms of com- 
mand and threatening ; but still these must speak, in 
the name of goodness. If command and threatening 
stand up to speak for themselves, alone — dissociated 
from that love which gives them all their moral 
character — then, I say, that the moral nature of 
man cannot receive their message. A brute can re- 
ceive that ; a dog or a horse can yield to mere com- 
mand or menace. But the moral nature can yield 
to nothing which is not moral ; and that which 
gives morality to every precept and warning is the 
goodness which is breathed into them. Divest them 
of this, and they are not even religious. Nor are 
those persons religious, who pay obedience to com- 
mand, as command, and without any consideration of 
its moral nature, of the intrinsic and essential sanc- 
tion which goodness bestows on the command 

The voice of religion, then, must be as the voice of 
goodness. Conceive of every thing good and lovely, 
of every thing morally excellent and admirable, of 
every thing glorious and godlike ; and when these speak 
to you, know that religion speaks to you. Whether 
that voice comes from the page of genius, or from 
the record of heroic and heavenly virtue, or from its 
living presence and example, or from the bosom of si- 
lent reverie, the innermost sanctuary of meditation ; 
whatever of the holy and beautiful speaks to you, and 
7 



74 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



through what medium soever it comes, it is the voice 
of religion. All excellence, in other words, is religion. 

But here we meet with what seems to me — and so 
must I denominate it, in justice to my own apprehen- 
sions, — a stupendous error ; an error, prevalent I 
believe, and yet fatal, so far as it goes, to all religious 
emotion. All excellence, I said, is religion. But the 
great error is, that in the popular apprehension, these 
things are not identified. In other words, religion and 
goodness are not identified in the general mind : they 
are not held by most men to be the same thing. This 
error, I say, if it exists, is fatal to genuine religious 
emotion ; because men cannot heartily love, as a 
moral quality, any thing which is not, to them, good- 
ness. Or, to state this position as a simple truism, 
they cannot love any thing which is not, to them, 
loveliness. 

Now I am willing, nay I earnestly wish, that with 
regard to the real nature of religion, there should be 
the utmost discrimination ; and I will soon speak to 
that point. But I say for the present — I say, again, 
that religion is made, intrinsically and altogether a 
different thing, from what is commonly regarded as 
loveliness of character, and therefore that it speaks to 
men, speaks to human nature, not as goodness but as 
some other thing. 

For proof of this, I ask you first to look at that 
phraseology by which religion is commonly described, 
and to compare it with the language by which men 
express those lovely qualities that they most admire. 
See, then, how they express their admiration. You 
hear them speak of one who is amiable, lovely, fasci 
nating ; of one who is honourable, upright, generous. 
You hear them speak of a good parent, of an affec- 
tionate child, of a worthy citizen, of an obliging neigh- 



THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT. 



75 



bour, of a kind and faithful friend, of a man whom 
they emphatically call " a noble man and you ob- 
serve a fervour of language and a glow of pleasure 
while these things are said : a kindling animation in 
the tone and the countenance, which inspires you 
with a kindred sympathy and delight. But mark now, 
in how different a language and manner, the qualities 
of religion are described. The votary of religion is 
said to be very " serious/' perhaps, but with a look and 
tone as if a much worse thing were stated : or you 
hear it said of him that he is " a pious man." or, he is " a 
very experienced person/' or he is " a Christian, if ever 
there was one ;" but it seems even when the religious 
themselves say all this, as if it were an extorted and 
cold homage ; as if religion were something very 
proper indeed, very safe perhaps, but not very agree- 
able certainly ; there is no glow, there is no anima- 
tion, and there is generally no sympathy. 

In further proof that religion is not identified with 
the beautiful and admirable in character, I might turn 
from the language in common use, to actual experi- 
ence. Is religion, I ask — not the religion of poetry, 
but that which exists in the actual conceptions of men, 
the religion of professors, the religion that is commonly 
taught from our pulpits — is it usually regarded as the 
loveliest attribute of the human character ? When your 
minds glow with the love of excellence, when you 
weep over the examples of goodness, is this excellence, 
is this goodness which you admire, religion? Consult 
the books of fiction, open the pages of history, resort 
to the stores of our classical literature, and say, if the 
religious man of our times appears in them at all ; or 
if. when he does appear in them, it is he that chiefly 
draws your affection ? Say, rather, if it is not some 
personage, whether of a real or fictitious tale, that is 



76 



ON HUMAN NATURE r 



destitute of every distinctive quality of the popular re- 
ligion, who kindles your enthusiasm ? So true is this, 
that many who have held the prevailing ideas of relig- 
ion, have regarded, and on their principles, have 
justly regarded, the literature of taste and of fiction, as 
one of the most insidious temptations that could befall 
them. No, I repeat, the images of loveliness that 
dwell in the general mind, whether of writers or 
readers, have not been the images of religion. And 
thus it has happened, that the men of taste, and of 
a lively and ardent sensibility, have, by no means 
yielded their proportion of votaries to religion. The 
dull, the gloomy, the sick, the aged, have been relig- 
ious ; not — i. e. not to the same extent — the young 
and the joyous in their first admiration and their first 
love ; not the intellectual and refined in the enthusiasm 
of their feelings and in the glory of their imagina- 
tions. 

But let me appeal once more to experience. I ask 
then : do you love religion? I ask you, I ask any one, 
who will entertain the question ; do you love religion ? 
Does the very word carry a sound that is agreeable, 
delightful to you ? Does it stand for something attrac- 
tive and lovely ? Are the terms that describe religion — 
grace, holiness, repentance, faith, godliness — are they 
invested with a charm to your heart, to your imagina- 
tion, to your whole mind? Now, to this question, I am 
sure, that many would answer freely and decidedly, 
? No, religion is not a thing that we love. We cannot 
say that we take that sort of interest in it. We do not 
professs to be religious, and — honestly — we do not 
wish to be." What ! I might answer in return : do you 
love nothing that is good ? Is there nothing in char- 
acter, nothing in attribute, no abstract charm that 
you love? "Far otherwise;" would be the reply. 



THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT. 



77 



u There are many persons that we love : there are 
many characters in history, in biography, in romance, 
that are delightful to us ; they are so noble, so 
beautiful." 

How different then — do we not see — are the ideas 
of religion, from the images of loveliness that dwell 
in many minds ! They are actually the same in prin- 
ciple. All excellence has the same foundation. There 
are not, and cannot be, two different and opposite kinds 
of rectitude. The moral nature of man, deranged 
though it be, is not deranged so far as to admit this ; 
and yet how evident is it, that religion is not identified 
with the excellence that men love ! 

But I hear it said. " the images of loveliness which 
dwell in the general mind, are not indeed the images 
of religion, and ought not to be : for they are false, 
and would utterly mislead us." Grant, now, for the 
sake of argument, that this were true, and whom 
would the admission benefit? What would follow 
from the admission ? Why, this clearly ; that of being 
religious, no power or possibility is within human 
reach. For men must love that which seems to them 
to be lovely. If that which seems to them to be 
lovely is not religion ; if religion is something else, 
and something altogether different ; religion, it is clear 
they cannot love. That is to say, on this hypothesis, 
they cannot be religious ; they cannot, by any possi- 
bility, but that in which all things are possible with 
God : they cannot by any possibility that comes 
within the range of the powers and affections, that 
God has given them. 

But it is not true that men's prevailing and consti- 
tutional perceptions of moral beauty are false. It is 
not true, that is to say, that their sense of right and 
wrong is false: that their conscience is a treacherous 
7# 



78 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



and deceitful guide. It is not true ; and yet, doubt- 
less, there is a discrimination to be made. Their per- 
ceptions may be, and undoubtedly often are low and 
inadequate, and marred with error. And therefore 
when we use the words, excellent, admirable, lovely, 
there is danger that to many, they will not mean all 
that they ought to mean ; that men's ideas of these 
qualities will not be as deep and thorough and strict, as 
they ought to be : while, if we confine ourselves to 
such terms for religious qualities, as serious, ho!y ? 
godly, the danger is that they will be just as errone- 
ous, besides being technical, barren, and uninteresting. 

There is a difficulty on this account attending the 
language of the pulpit, which every reflecting man, in 
the use of it, must have felt. But the truth, amidst 
all these discriminations, I hold to be this ; that the 
universal and constitutional perceptions of moral love- 
liness which mankind entertain, are radically just. 
And therefore the only right doctrine and the only 
rational direction to be addressed to men, on this sub- 
ject is to the following effect ; " Whatever your con- 
science dictates ; whatever your mind clothes with mor- 
al beauty ; that to you, is right ; be that to you, religion. 
Nothing else can be, if you think rationally ; and there- 
fore let that be to you the religion that you love ; and 
let it be your endeavour, continually to elevate and pu- 
rify your conceptions of all virtue and goodness. 77 Nay, 
if I knew a man whose ideas of excellence were ever 
so low, I should still say to him, Revere those ideas ; 
they are all that you can revere. The very apprehen- 
sions you entertain of the glory of God, cannot go be- 
yond your ideas of excellence. All that you can wor- 
ship then, is the most perfect excellence you can con- 
ceive of. Be that, therefore, the object of your reve- 
rence. However low, however imperfect it is, still be 



THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT. 79 

that to you the image of the Divinity. On that scale 
of your actual ideas, however humble, let your 
thoughts rise to higher and higher perfection." 

I say, however low. And grant now that the moral 
conceptions of a man are very low ; yet if they are the 
highest he has, is there any thing higher that he can 
follow ? Will it be said there are the Scriptures ? 
But the aid of the Scriptures is already presupposed 
in the case. They contribute to form the very per- 
ceptions in question. They are a light to man, only 
as they kindle a light within him. They do not, and 
they cannot mean more to any man, than he under- 
stands, than he perceives them to mean. His percep- 
tions of their intent then, he must follow. He cannot 
follow the light, any farther than he sees it. 

But it may be said that many of the ignorant and 
debased see very little light ; that their perceptions 
are very low ; that they admire qualities and actions 
of a very questionable character. What then ? You 
must begin with them where they are ! But let us not 
grant too much of this. Go to the most degraded 
being you know, and tell him some story of noble dis- 
interestedness, or touching charity ; tell him the story 
of Howard, or Swartz, or Oberlin ; and will he not 
approve ; will he not admire ? Then tell him, I say — 
as the summing up of this head of my discourse — tell 
him that this is religion. Tell him that this is a faint 
shadow, to the infinite brightness of divine love ; a 
feeble and marred image, compared with the infinite 
benignity and goodness of God ! 

II. My next observation is, on the principles to be 
addressed. And, on this point, I say in general, that 
religion should appeal to the good in man against the 
bad. That there is good in man, not fixed goodness ; 
but that there is something good in man is evident 



80 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



from the fact that he has an idea of goodness. For 
if the matter be strictly and philosophically traced, it 
will be found that the idea of goodness can spring 
from nothing else but experience, but the inward 
sense of it. 

But not to dwell on this ; my principal object under 
this head of discourse is to maintain, that religion 
should appeal chiefly \ not to the lowest, but to the 
highest of our moral sentiments. 

There are sentiments in our nature to which pow- 
erful appeal can be made, and they are emphatically, 
its high and honourable sentiments. If you wished to 
speak in tones that should thrill through the very heart 
of the world, you would speak to these before all 
others. Almost all the richest poetry, the most admi- 
rable, the fine arts, the most popular and powerful 
eloquence in the world, have addressed these moral 
and generous sentiments of human nature. And I 
have observed it as quite remarkable indeed, because 
it is an exception to the general language of the pul- 
pit, that all the most eloquent preachers have made 
great use of these very sentiments ; they have appeal- 
ed to the sense of beauty, to generosity and tender- 
ness, to the natural conscience, the natural sense of 
right and wrong, of honour and shame. 

To these, then, if you would move the human heart, 
you would apply yourself. You would appeal to the 
indignation at wrong, at oppression, or treachery, or 
meanness, or to the natural admiration which men 
feel for virtuous and noble deeds. If you would touch 
the most tender feelings of the human heart, you 
would still make your appeal to these sentiments. 
You would represent innocence borne down and crush- 
ed by the arm of power ; you would describe patriot- 
ism labouring and dying for its country : or you would 



THE APPEAL OP RELIGION TO IT. 81 



describe a parent's love with all its cares and anxieties 
and its self-sacrificing devotion : or you would por- 
tray filial affection, watching over infirmity and re- 
lieving pain and striving to pay back something of the 
misrhty debt of filial gratitude. Look abroad in the 
world, or look back upon the history of ages past, and 
ask for those on whom the enthusiasm and pride and 
affection of men love to dwell. Evoke from the shad- 
ows of the times gone by, their majestic, their cher- 
ished forms, around which the halo of everlasting ad- 
miration dwells : and what are they ? Behold the 
names of the generous, the philanthropic, and the 
good : behold, the voice of martyred blood on the altars 
of cruelty, or on the hills of freedom for ever rising 
from the earth — eternal testimonies to the right and 
noble sentiments of mankind. 

To these, then, religion ought to have appealed. 
In these sentiments, it ought to have laid its founda- 
tion, and on these it ought to have built up its power. 
But has it done so ? Could it do so, while it held hu- 
man nature to be utterly depraved ? 

But there is a farther question. Can any religion. 
Christian or heathen, in fact, entirely discard human 
nature? Certainly not. Must not every religion that 
speaks to man, speak to something human? Undoubt- 
edly, it must. What then is the end of all this zeal 
against human nature? Has it not been, I ask, to 
address the worst parts of it ? There has been no 
scruple, about appealing to fear and anxiety. But of 
the sentiments of admiration, of the sense of beauty in 
the human heart, of the deep love for friends and 
kindred that lingers there, religion has been afraid. 
Grant indeed, that these sentiments and affections have 
been too low. It was the very business of religion to 



82 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



elevate them. But while it has failed to do this, in 
the degree it ought, how often has it spread a rack of 
torture for our fear and solicitude ! How often has it 
been an engine of superstition, an inflicter of penance, 
a minister of despondency and gloom ; an instrument 
effective, as if it were framed on purpose, to keep 
down all natural buoyancy, generosity and liberal 
aspiration ! How often has religion frowned upon 
the nature that it came to save ; and instead of win- 
ning its confidence and love, has incurred its hatred 
and scorn ; and instead of having drawn it into the 
blessed path of peace and trust, has driven it to in- 
difference, infidelity or desperation ! 

And how lamentable is this ! Here is a world of 
beings, filled with enthusiasm, filled with a thou- 
sand warm and kindling affections ; the breasts of 
millions are fired with admiration for generous and 
heroic virtues ; and when the living representative 
of these virtues appears among us — a Washington, 
or some illustrious compeer in excellence — crowded 
cities go forth to meet him, and nations lift up the 
voice of gratitude. How remarkable in the human 
character is this moral admiration ! What quick- 
ening thoughts does it awaken in solitude ! What 
tears does it call forth, when we think of the prisons, 
the hospitals, the desolate dwellings, visited and 
cheered by the humane and merciful ! With what 
ecstacy does it swell the human breast, when the vis- 
ion of the patriotic, the patiently suffering, the mag- 
nanimous and the good, passes before us ! In all this 
the inferior race has no share. They can fear ; but 
esteem, veneration, the sense of moral loveliness, they 
know not. These are the prerogatives of man, the 
gifts of nature to him, the gifts of God. But how 



THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT. 83 



little, alas ! have they been called into the service of 
his religion ! How little have their energies been 
enlisted in that which is the great concern of man ! 

And all this is the more to be lamented, because 
those who are most susceptible of feeling and of en- 
thusiasm, most need the power and support of reli- 
gion. The dull, the earthly, the children of sense, 
the mere plodders in business, the mere votaries of 
gain, may do, or may think they can do, without it. 
But how many beings are there, how many spirits of 
a finer mould, and of a loftier bearing, and of more 
intellectual wants, who, when the novelty of life is 
worn off, when the enthusiasm of youth has been freely 
lavished, when changes come on, when friends die, and 
there is care and weariness, and solitude to press upon 
the heart — how many are there, then, that sigh bitterly 
after some better thing, after something greater, and 
more permanent, and more satisfying ! And how do 
they need to be told that religion is that better thing ; 
that it is not a stranger to their wants and sorrows ; 
that its voice is speaking and pleading within them, in 
the cry of their lamentation, and in the felt burthen of 
their necessity ; that religion is the home of their far- 
wandering desires ; the rest, the heaven, of their long- 
troubled affections ! How do they need to hear the 
voice that says, " Unto you, O men — men of care, and 
fear, and importunate desire — do I call ; and my voice 
is to the sons of men — to the children of frailty, and 
trouble, and sorrow !" 

III. Let us now proceed to consider, in the third 
place and finally, from the relation between the power 
that speaks and the principle addressed, in what man- 
ner the one should appeal to the other. 

The relation then between them, I say, is a relation 
of amity. But let me explain. I do not say, of course, 



84 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



that there is amity between right and wrong. I do 

not say, that there is amity betw r een pure goodness, and 
what is evil in man. But that which is wrong and evil 
in man, is the perversion of something that is good and 
right. To that good and right, I contend that reli- 
gion should speak. To that it must speak, for there 
is nothing else to hear it. We do not appeal to ab- 
stractions of evil in man, because there are no such 
things in him ; but we appeal to affections ; to affections 
in which there is a mixture of good and evil. To the 
good, then, I say, we must appeal, against the evil. 
And every preacher of righteousness, may boldly and 
fearlessly approach the human heart, in the confidence 
that however it may defend itself against him, however 
high it may build its battlements of habit and its tow- 
ers of pride, he has friends in the very citadel. 

I say, then, that religion should address the true 
moral nature of man, as its friend, and not as its 
enemy ; as its lawful subject, and not as an alien or a 
traitor ; and should address it, therefore, with generous 
and hopeful confidence, and not with cold and repulsive 
distrust. What is it, in this nature to which religion 
speaks ? To reason, to conscience, to the love of hap- 
piness, to the sense of the infinite and the beautiful, to 
aspirations after immortal good ; to natural sensibility, 
also, to the love of kindred and country and home. 
All these are in this nature, and they are all fitted to 
render obedience to religion. In this obedience they 
are satisfied, and indeed they can never be satisfied 
without it. 

Admit, now, that these powers are ever so sadly 
perverted and corrupted : still, no one maintains that 
they are destroyed. Neither is their testimony to what 
is right ever, in any case, utterly silenced. Should 
they not then, be appealed to in a tone of confidence ? 



*fH£j AJbi EAJL OF KKLIGION TO IT. 



Suppose, for instance, to illustrate our observation, that 
simple reason were appealed to on any subject not relig- 
ious ; and suppose, to make the case parallel, that the 
reason of the man on that subject were very much 
perverted, that he was very much prejudiced and mis- 
led. Yet would not the argument be directed to his 
reason, as a principle actually existing in him, and as 
a principle to be confided in and to be recovered from 
its error ? Would not every tone of the argument and 
of the expostulation show confidence in the principle 
addressed 1 

Oh ! what power might religion have had, if it had 
breathed this tone of confidence ; if it had gone down 
into the deep and silent places of the heart as the voice 
of friendship ; if it had known what precious treasures 
of love and hope and joy are there, ready to be made 
celestial by its touch ; if it had spoken to man as the 
most affectionate parent would speak to his most 
beloved, though sadly erring child ; if it had said in 
the emphatic language of the text, " Unto you, O men, 
I call, and my voice is to the sons of men ;" lo ! T have 
set my love upon you ; upon } T ou, men of the strong 
and affectionate nature, of the aspiring and heaven- 
needing soul ; not upon inferior creatures, not upon the 
beasts of the field, but upon you have I set my love : 
give entrance to me, not with fear and mistrust, but 
with good hope and with gladness ; give entrance to 
me, and I will make my abode with you, and I will 
build up all that is within you, in glory, and beauty, 
and ineffable brightness." Alas ! for our erring and 
sinful, but also misguided and ill-used nature; bad 
enough indeed we have made it or suffered it to be 
made ; but if a better lot had befallen it, if kindlier 
influences had breathed upon it ; if the parent's and 
the preacher's voice, inspired with every tone of hal- 
8 



86 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



lowed feeling, had won it to piety ; if the train of social 
life, with every attractive charm of goodness, had led 
it in the consecrated way, we had ere this known, 
what now, alas ! we so poorly know — we had known 
what it is to be children of God, and heirs of heaven. 

My friends, let religion speak to us in its own true 
character, with all its mighty power, and winning can- 
dour and tenderness. It is the principle of infinite 
wisdom that speaks. From that unknown period 
before the world was created — so saith the holy record ; 
from the depth of eternity, from the centre of infinity, 
from the heart of the universe, from " the bosom of 
God ;" its voice has come forth, and spoken to us, to 
us, men, in our lowly habitations. What a ministra- 
tion is it ! It is the infinite communing with the 
finite ; it is might communing with frailty ; it is mercy 
stretching out its arms to the guilty. It is goodness 
taking part with all that is good in us, against all that 
is evil. So full, so overflowing, so all-pervading is it, 
that all things give it utterance. It speaks to us in 
every thing lowly, and in every thing lofty. It speaks 
to us in every whispered accent of human affection ; and 
in every revelation that is sounded out from the spread- 
ing heavens. It speaks to us from this lowly seat at 
which we bow down in prayer ; from this humble 
shrine veiled with the shadows of mortal infirmity ; 
and it speaks to us alike, from those altar-fires, that 
blaze in the heights of the firmament. It speaks where 
the seven thunders utter their voices; and it sends 
forth its voice — of pity more than human, of agony 
more than mortal — from the silent summit of Calvary. 

Can a principle so sublime and so benignant as relig- 
ion, speak to us but for our good ? Can infinity, can 
omnipotence, can boundless love, speak to us, but in 
the spirit of infinite generosity, and candour, and ten- 



THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT. 



87 



derness? No ; it may be the infirmity of man to use 
a harsh tone, and to heap upon us bitter and cruel up- 
braiding^ ; but so speaks not religion. It says — and I 
trace an accent of tenderness and entreaty in every 
word — " Unto you, O men, I call ; and my voice — my 
voice is to the children of men." 

O man ! whosoever thou art, hear that voice of wis- 
dom. Hear it, thou sacred conscience ! and give not 
way to evil ; touch no bribe ; touch not dishonest gain ; 
touch not the sparkling cup of unlawful pleasure. 
Hear it, ye better affections ! dear and holy ! and turn 
not your purity to pollution, and your sweetness to 
bitterness, and your hope to shame. Hear it, poor, 
wearied, broken, prostrate, human nature ! and rise to 
penitence, to sanctity, to glory, to heaven. Rise now; 
lest soon, it be for ever too late. Rise, at this entreaty 
of wisdom, for wisdom can utter no more. Rise, — 
arise at this voice ; for the universe is exhausted of all 
its revelations — infinity, omnipotence, boundless love 
have lavished their uttermost resources in this one 
provision, this one call, this one Gospel, of mercy ! 



VI. 



THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 

OH! THAT I KNEW WHERE I MIGHT FIND HIM j THAT I MIGHT COME EVEN 
TO HIS SEAT ! I WOULD ORDER MY CAUSE BEFORE HIM, AND FILL MY MOUTH 
WITH ARGUMENTS. 1 WOULD KNOW THE WORDS WHICH HE WOULD ANSWER 
ME ; AND UNDERSTAND WHAT HE WOULD SAY TO ME. — Job XXlii. 3, 4 aiid 5 YS. 

It is striking to observe, how large a part of the book 
of Job, and especially of Job's own meditation, is occu- 
pied with a consideration of the nature and character 
of the Supreme being. The subject-matter of the book, 
is human calamity. The point proposed for solution, 
is the interpretation of that calamity. The immediate 
question — of very little interest now, perhaps, but one 
of urgent difficulty in a darker age — is, whether cala- 
mity is retributive ; whether, in proportion as a man 
is afflicted, he is to be accounted a bad man. Job con- 
tends against this principle, and the controversy with 
his friends turns upon this point. But as I have al- 
ready remarked, it is striking to observe how often his 
mind rises apparently quite above the controversy, to 
a sublime meditation on God. As if feeling, that pro- 
vided he could fix his trust there, he should be strong 
and triumphant, thither he continually resorts. With 
these loftier soarings, are mingled, it is true, passion- 
ate complaint and sad despondency and bitter re- 
proaches against his friends, and painful questionings 
about the whole order of providence. It is indeed a 
touching picture of a mind in distress ; with its sad 



CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 89 



fluctuations ; its words of grief and haste bursting 
into the midst of its words of prayer ; its soarings and 
sinkings ; its passionate and familiar adjurations of 
heaven and earth to help it ; and with the world of 
dark and undefined thoughts, which roll through it 
like waves of chaos : in short, it is a picture, whose 
truth can be realized only by experience. 

But I was about to observe that this tendency of 
Job's mind in the Supreme, though it may seem to 
carry him, at times, up quite out of sight of the ques- 
tion in hand, is really a natural tendency, and that 
it naturally sprung from the circumstances in which 
he was placed. The human condition is throughout, 
allied to a divine power ; and the strong feeling of 
what this condition is, always leads us to that Power. 
The positive good and evil of this condition, therefore, 
have especially this tendency. This is implied in the 
proem or preface of the book of Job ; which gives an 
account after the dramatic manner which character- 
izes the whole book, of the circumstances that lead to 
Job's trial. After a brief prefatory statement inform- 
ing the reader who Job was, and what were his pos- 
sessions, the scene is represented as opening in heaven. 
Among the sons of God, Satan presents himself, the 
Accuser, the Adversary. And when Job's virtue is the 
theme of commendation, the Accuser says, " Doth Job 
fear God for naught ? A grand Emir of the East ; cra- 
dled in luxury ; loaded with the benefits of heaven : 
doth he fear God for naught ? Put forth thine hand 
now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee 
to thy face !" It is done ; and Job is stripped of his 
possessions, servants, children — all. And Job falls 
down upon the ground and worships ; and says, " The 
Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away ; blessed be 
the name of the Lord." 
8* 



90 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



But again the Accuser says ; thou hast not laid 
thine hand yet upon his person. Come yet nearer ; 
" put forth thine hand now, and touch his bone, and 
his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face." Again 
it is done ; and Job is smitten and overwhelmed with 
disease ; and he sits down in ashes and scrapes him- 
self with a potsherd ; a pitiable and loathsome object. 
The faith of his wife too, gives way, of her who, above 
all, should have supported him then ; but who, from 
the reverence and love which she felt for her husband, 
is least able to bear the sight of his misery. She can- 
not bear it : and partaking of the prevalent feelings of 
the age about outward prosperity, as the very measure 
and test of the Divine favour, she says, " dost thou 
still retain thine integrity 1 Curse God and die ! :? 
"Give up the strife ; you have been a good man ; you 
have helped and comforted many ; and now you are 
reduced to this. Give up the strife ; curse God and 
die L" And Job answered, " thou speakest as one of 
the foolish women speaketh !" What nature ! We 
seem to hear that fireside conversation. What nature ! 
and what delicacy, mingled with reproof! "Thou 
speakest not as my wife, but as one of the foolish, pra- 
ting women speaketh. What ! shall we receive good 
at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil ? 
In all this did not Job sin with his lips." 

Then the three friends of Job came to him ; and it 
is a beautiful trait of delicacy for those ancient times, 
that these friends, according to the representation, " sat 
down upon the ground with him seven days and seven 
nights, and spake not a icord unto him : for they saw 
that his grief was great." When we recollect that all 
over the East, loud wailings and lamentations were 
the usual modes of testifying sympathy, we are led 
to ask, whence came — whence, but from inspiration, 



CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 91 

this finer conception, befitting the utmost culture and 
delicacy of later times? "Seven days and seven 
nights they sat with him, and none of them spake a 
word to him." Of course, we are not to take this 
too literally. According to the Hebrew custom, they 
mourned with him seven days : that is, they were in 
his house, and they came, doubtless, and sat with him 
from time to time ; but they entered into no large dis- 
course with him ; they saw that it was not the time 
for many words ; they mourned in silence. 

This I have said is a beautiful conception of what 
belongs to the most delicate and touching sympathy. 
There comes a time to speak, and so the friends of 
Job judged ; though their speech proved less delicate 
and judicious than their silence. There comes a time 
to speak ; there are circumstances which may make it 
desirable ; there are easy and unforced modes of ad- 
dress which may make it grateful; there are cases 
where a thoughtful man may help his neighbour with 
his wisdom, or an affectionate man may comfort him, 
with sympathy ; " a word fitly spoken," says the 
sacred proverbialist, " is like apples of gold in pictures 
of silver." 

And yet after all, it seems to me that words can go 
but a little way into the depths of affliction. The 
thoughts that struggle there in silence ; that go out 
into the silence of infinitude, into the silence of eterni- 
ty, have no emblems. Thoughts enough, God know- 
eth, come there ; such as no tongue ever uttered. And 
those thoughts do not so much want human sympathy 
as they want higher help. I deny not the sweetness 
of that balm ; but I say that something higher is want- 
ed. The sympathy of all good friends, too, we know 
that we have, without a word spoken. And moreover, 



92 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



the sympathy of all the world, though grateful, would 
not lighten the load, one feather's weight. Something 
else the mind wants, something to rest upon. There 
is a loneliness in deep sorrow, to which God only can 
draw near. Its prayer is emphatically " the prayer of 
a lonely heart." Alone, the mind is wrestling with 
the great problem of calamity ; and the solution, it asks 
from the infinite providence of heaven. Did I not 
rightly say, then, that calamity directly leads us to 
God ; and that the tendency, so apparent in the mind 
of Job, to lift itself up to that exalted theme of contem- 
plation, was natural ? And it is natural too that the 
one book of affliction given us in the holy record, the 
one book wholly devoted to that subject, is, throughout 
and almost entirely, a meditation on God. 

I wish to speak, in the present season of meditation, 
of this tendency of the mind, amidst the trials and dis- 
tresses of life, to things superior to itself, and espe- 
cially to the Supreme Being. It is not affliction of 
which I am to speak, but of that to which it leads. My 
theme is, the natural aspiration of humanity to things 
above and beyond it, and the revealings from above to 
that aspiration ; it is in other words, the call of hu- 
manity and the answer to it. " I would order my 
cause before him," says Job, "I would know the 
words he would answer me." 

There are many things in us, of which we are not 
distinctly conscious ; and it is one office of every great 
ministration to human nature, whether its vehicle be 
the pen, the pencil, or the tongue, to waken that slum- 
bering: consciousness into life. And so do I think, 
that it is one office of the pulpit. That inmost con- 
sciousness, were it called forth from the dim cells in 
the soul, where it sleeps; how instantly would it turn 



CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 93 



to a waking and spiritual reality, that life, which is 
now to many, a state so dull and worldly, so uninter- 
esting and unprofitable ! 

How it should be such to any, seems to me, I con- 
fess, a thing almost inconceivable. It may be be- 
cause my life is, as I may say, professionally a medi- 
tation upon themes of the most spiritual and quicken- 
ing interest. Certainly I do not lay any claim to supe- 
rior purity, for seeming to myself to see things as they 
are. But surely, this life, instead of being anything 
negative or indifferent, instead of being anything dull 
and trivial, seems to me I was ready to say, as if it were 
bound up with mystery, and agony, and rapture. Yes, 
rapture as well as agony ; the rapture of love, of re- 
ciprocated affection, of hope, of joy, of prayer ; and the 
agony of pain, of loss, of bereavement ; and over all 
their smugglings, the dark cloud of mystery. If any one 
is unconscious of the intensity and awfulness of this 
life within him, I believe it is because he does not 
know what he is all the while feeling. Health and 
sickness, joy and sorrow, success and disappoint- 
ment, life and death, are familiar words upon his lips, 
and he does not know to what depths they point 
within him. It is just as a man may live unconscious 
that there is anything unusual about him, in this age 
of unprecedented excitement ; in this very crisis of 
the world's story. 

Indeed a man seems never to know what any thing 
means, till he has lost it ; and this, I suppose, is the 
reason why losses, vanishings away of things, are 
among the teachings of this world of shadows. The 
substance indeed teacheth ; but the vacuity whence it 
has disappeared, yet more. Many an organ, many a 
nerve and fibre in our bodily frame, performs its silent 
part for years, and leaves us almost or quite uncon- 



94 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



scious of its value. But let there be the smallest in- 
jury, the slightest cut of a knife, which touches that 
organ or severs the fibre ; and then we find, though it 
be the point of our finger, that we want it continually : 
then we discover its value ; then we learn, that the 
fine and invisible nerves that spread themselves all 
over this wonderful frame, are a significant hand-wri- 
ting of divine wisdom. And thus it is, with the uni- 
versal frame of things in life. One would think that 
the blessings of this world were sufficiently valued ; 
but after all, the full significancy of those words, pro- 
perty, ease, health ; the wealth of meaning that lies in 
the fond epithets, parent, child, friend, we never know 
till they are taken away ; till in place of the bright, 
visible being, comes the awful and desolate shadow 
where nothing is ; where we stretch out our hands in 
vain, and strain our eyes upon dark and dismal vacuity. 
Still, in that vacuity we do not lose the object that we 
loved : it only becomes more real to us. Thus do 
blessings not only brighten when they depart, but are 
fixed in enduring reality ; and friendship itself receives 
its everlasting seal, beneath the cold impress of death. 

I have said thus much for the sake of illustration, 
of suggestion ; to show you that the imprint of things 
may be upon us, which we scarcely know ; to inti- 
mate to you — what I believe — that a dim conscious- 
ness of infinite mystery and grandeur, lies beneath 
all this common place of life ; yes, and to arouse 
even the most irreligious worldliness, by the awfulness 
and majesty that are around it. As I have seen a rude 
peasant from the Appenines, falling asleep at the foot 
of a pillar in one of the majestic Roman churches ; 
doubtless the choral symphonies yet fell soft upon his 
ear, and the gilded arches were yet dimly seen through 
the half slumbering eye-lids : so, I think, it is often. 



CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITF* ANSWER. 95 



with the repose and the very stupor of worldliness. It 
cannot quite lose the sense of where it is, and of what 
is above and around it. 

The scene of its actual engagements may be small ; 
the paths of its steps, beaten and familiar ; the objects 
it handles easily spanned, and quite worn out with 
daily uses. So it may be, and amidst such things, 
that we all live. So we live our little life ; but heaven 
is above us ; and eternity is before us, and behind us ; 
and suns and stars are silent witnesses and watchers 
over us. Not to speak fancifully, of what is matter of 
fact ; do you not always feel that you are enfolded by 
infinity ? Infinite powers, infinite spaces ; do they not 
lie all around you ? Is not the dread arch of mystery, 
spread over you : and no voice ever pierced it ? Is not 
eternity enthroned amidst yonder starry heights : and no 
utterance, no word ever came from those far-lying and 
silent spaces ? Oh ! it is strange — to think of that 
awful majesty above, and then to think of what is be- 
neath it ; this little struggle of life : this poor day's con- 
flict ; this busy ant-hill of a city. Shut down the dome 
of heaven close upon it : let it crush and confine every 
thought to the present spot, to the present instant ; and 
such would a city be. But now, how is it ? Ascend 
the lonely watch-tower of evening meditation, and look 
forth and listen; and lo ! the talk of the streets, the 
sounds of music and revelling, the stir and tread of a 
multitude, go up into the silent and all-surrounding 
infinitude ! 

But is it the audible sound only that goeth up ? Oh ! 
no ; but amidst the stir and noise of visible life, from 
the inmost bosom of the visible man, there goeth up a 
call, a cry, an asking, unuttered, unutterable ; an ask- 
ing for revelation, saying in almost speechless agony ; 
" Oh ! break, dread arch of mystery ! tell us, ye stars, 



96 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



that roll above the waves of mortal trouble ; speak ! 
enthroned majesty of those awful heights ; bow down 
you mysterious and reserved heavens and come near ; 
tell us, what ye only know ; tell us of the loved and 
lost ; tell us what we are, and whither we are going !" 

Is not man such an one 7 Is he not encompassed 
with a dome of incomprehensible wonders ? Is there 
not that, in him and about him which should fill his 
life with majesty and sacredness ? Is there not some- 
thing of sublimity and sanctity thus born down 
from heaven, into the heart of every man? Where is 
the being so base and abandoned but he hath some 
traits of that sacredness left upon him ; something so 
much in discordance perhaps with his general repute, 
that he hides it from all around him ; some sanctuary 
in his soui, where no one may enter ; some sacred en- 
closure — where the memory of a child is, or the image 
of a venerated parent, or the echo of some sweet word 
of kindness that was once spoken to him ; an echo, 
that shall never die away ? 

Would man awake to the higher and better things 
that are in him, he would no longer feel, I repeat, that 
life to him is a negative, or superficial, or worldly 
existence. Evermore are his steps haunted with 
thoughts, far beyond their own range ; which some 
have regarded, as the reminiscences of a pre-existent 
state. As a man who passeth a season in the sad and 
pleasant land of Italy, feels a majestic presence of sub- 
lime ages and histories with him, which, he does not 
always distinctly recognize, but which lend an inde- 
scribable interest to every field, and mountain, and 
mouldering wall, and make life to be, all the while, 
more than mere life ; so it is with us all, in the beaten 
and worn track of this worldly pilgrimage. There is 
more here, than the world we live in ; " it is not all of 



CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 97 



life to live. 7 ' An unseen and infinite presence is here ; 
a sense of something greater than we possess : a seek- 
ing, through all the void waste of life, for a good 
beyond it ; a crying out of the heart for interpretation ; 
a memory of the dead, which touches, ever and anon, 
some vibrating thread in this great tissue of mystery. 

I cannot help thinking, that we all, not only have 
better intimations, but are capable of better things than 
we know ; that the pressure of some great emergency 
would develope in us powers, beyond the worldly bias 
of our spirits : and that, so heaven dealeth with us, 
from time to time, as to call forth those better things. 
Perhaps there is not a family so selfish in the world, 
but that if one in it were doomed to die : if tyranny 
demanded a victim, it would be utterly impossible for 
its members, parents and children, to choose out that 
victim : but that all and each one would say, " I will 
die, bat I cannot choose." Nay, in how many families, 
if that dire extremity had come, would one and another 
step forth, freed from the vile meshes of ordinary self- 
ishness, and say, like the Roman father and son, " let 
the blow fall on me !" There are greater and better 
things in us all, than the world takes account of, or 
than ice take note of, would we find them out. And 
it is one part of our spiritual culture to find these traits 
of greatness and power, to revive these faded impres- 
sions of generosity and goodness ; the almost squand- 
ered bequests of God's love and kindness to our souls ; 
and to yield ourselves to their guidance and control. 

I am sensible that my discoursing now, has been 
somewhat desultory and vague. Perhaps, though I 
delight not in such discoursing generally, it has not 
been, in this instance, without a purpose. For the 
conciousness which I wish to address, is doubtless 
itself something, too shadowy and vague. But it is 
9 



98 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



real, though indistinct. An unsatisfied asking is for 
ever in all human hearts. We know that the ma- 
terial crust of this earth does not limit our thoughts ; 
that the common-place of life does not suffice us ; that 
there are things in us, which go far beyond the range 
of our ordinary, earthly pursuits. Depraved as we 
may be, these things are true. They are indeed signs 
that we are fallen ; but they are signs too that all is 
not lost. They are significant revelations ; and they 
are admonitions no less powerful. 

But now when our minds go out beyond the range 
of their visible action, what do they find ? We have 
spoken of the great call of humanity ; what is the 
answer ? 

The first answer comes from the mind itself. When 
we descend into the depths of our own being, we find de. 
sires which nothing less than the infinite can satisfy, 
powers fitted for everlasting expansion ; powers whose 
unfolding at every step, only awakens new and vaster 
cravings ; and sorrows, which all the accumulated 
wealth and pleasure of the world can never, never 
soothe. If a man's life consisted in that which he pos- 
sesseth, how intolerable would it be ! To be confined 
to what we have and what we are, is to be shut up in 
a dungeon, where we cannot breathe ! Is not this 
whole nature then itself a stupendous argument 
for something greater to come ? Is not this very 
conciousness deep in our souls, itself an answer? 
When you look at the embryo bird in the shell, you 
know T that it is made to burst that little prison. You 
see feet that are made to run, and wings to fly. And 
as it pecks at the imprisoning shell, you see in that 
very impulse, the prophetic certainty that it is to come 
forth to light and air. And is the noblest being on 
earth alone to be for ever imprisoned, to perish in his 



CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 99 

prison ; for ever to feel himself imprisoned ; for ever to 
press against the barriers of his present knowledge and 
existence ; and never to go forth ? Are maris embryo 
powers alone — are his cravings and aspirations after 
something higher, to be accounted no revealings, no 
prophecies of a loftier destiny ? 

And again ; when we lift up our thoughts to the vast 
infinitude, what do we find ? Order, holding its sublime 
reign among the countless revolving suns and systems ; 
and light, fair and beautiful, covering all as with a gar- 
ment. Look up to the height of heaven in some bright 
and smiling summer's day ; hehold the etherial soft- 
ness, the meteor of beauty that hangs over us ; and 
does it not seem as if it were an enfolding gentleness ; 
a silent, hushed breathing of unutterable love ? Was 
ever a mother's eye bent on her child, more sweet and 
gentle ? Was ever a loving countenance, more full of 
ineffable meaning ? " Oh ! you sweet heavens !" hath 
many a poet said ; and can he who made those hea- 
vens, sublime and beautiful, wish us any harm ? Were 
you made lord of those heavens, could you hurl down 
unrecking sorrow and disaster upon the poor tremblers 
beneath you ? God, who hath breathed that pitying 
and generous thought into your heart, will not belie it 
in himself. My heart is to me a revelation, and heaven 
is to me a revelation of God's benignity. And when 
the voices of human want and sorrow go upward — as 
one has touchingly said, " like inarticulate cries, and 
sobbings of a dumb creature, which in the ear of 
heaven, are prayers " — I can no more doubt that they 
find gracious consideration and pity above, than if a 
voice of unearthly tenderness breathed from the sky, 
saying, " Poor frail beings ! borne on the bosom of im- 
perfection, and laid upon the lap of sorrow ; be patient 
and hopeful ; ye are not neglected nor forgotten ; the 



100 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



heaven above you. holds itself in majestic reserve, 
because ye cannot bear what it has to tell you — holds 
you in solemn suspense, which death only may break ; 
be faithful unto death : be trustful for a while : and all 
your lofty asking shall have answer, and all your 
patient sorrow shall find issue, in everlasting peace." 

But. once more, there is more than a voice : there is 
a revelation in nature, and especially in the mission 
of Jesus Christ, more touching than words. 

I have said that there is no uttered speech, from all 
around us : and yet have maintained that there is ex- 
pression as clear and emphatic as speech : and I now 
say, it is much more expressive than speech. Let me 
observe here, that we are liable to lay quite an undue 
stress upon this mode of communication, upon speech : 
simply because speech is the ordained and ordinary 
vehicle of converse between man and man. If men 
had communicated with one another by pantomime ; 
if forms, and not utterances had been the grand in- 
strument of impression : if human love had always 
been expressed only by a urighter glow of the coun- 
tenance, and pity only by a softer shadowing upon its 
beauty, then had we better understood perhaps, the 
grand communication of nature. Then had the bright 
sky in the day-time, and the soft veil of evening, and 
all the shows of things, around the whole dome of 
heaven and amidst the splendour and beauty of the 
world — all these. I say. in the majesty of silence, had 
been a revelation, not only the clearest, but the most 
impressive that was possible. I say in the majesty of 
silence. For accustomed as we are to speech : how 
much more powerful in some things is silence ! How 
intolerable would it have been, if every day when it 
came had audibly said. "God is good:"' and every 
evening when it stole upon us. had said. " God is good f 



CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 101 

and every cloud when it rose, and every tree as it blos- 
somed, and every plant as it sprung from the earth, had 
audibly said, " God is good !" No, the silence of nature 
is more impressive, would we understand it, than any 
speech could be ; it expresses what no speech can utter. 
No bare word can tell what that bright sky meaneth ; 
what the wealth of nature meaneth ; what is the 
heart's own deep assurance, that God is good. 

But yet more ; in the express revelation that is given 
us, it is not the bare word spoken, that is most power- 
ful ; it is the character of interposing mercy that is 
spread all over the volume. It is the miracle — that 
causes nature to break the secret of an all-controlling 
power, in that awful pause and silence. It is the loving 
and living excellence of Jesus ; that miracle of his 
life, more than all. The word is but an attestation 
to something done. Had it been done in silence ; could 
all generations have seen Jesus living, Jesus suffering ; 
and heaven opened ; it had been enough. Words are 
but the testimony, that hath gone forth to all genera- 
tions and all ages, of what hath been done. God is 
ever doing for us, what — be it said reverently — what 
he cannot speak. As a dear friend, can look the love, 
which he cannot utter ; so do I read the face of nature ; 
so do I read the record of God's interposing mercy. I 
feel myself embraced with a kindness, too tender and 
strong for utterance. It cannot tell me how dear to 
the Infinite love, my welfare, my purity, is. Only by 
means and ministrations, by blessings and trials, by 
dealings and pressures of its gracious hand upon me, 
can it make me know. So do I read the volume of 
life and nature ; and so do I read the volume of reve- 
lation. I see in Jesus living, in Jesus suffering ; I see 
in the deep heart of his pain and patience, and love 
and pity, what no words can utter. I learn this not 
9* 



102 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



from any excellency of speech, but from the excellency 
of his living and suffering. Even in the human breast 
the deepest things, are things which it can never utter. 
So it was in the heart of Jesus. So it is — I speak it 
reverently — in the nature of God, " For no ear hath 
ever heard, the things which God hath prepared for 
them that love him. But God hath revealed them to 
us by his spirit ; for the spirit, and the spirit alone, 
searcheth all things, yea, the deep things of God." 



VII. 



HUMAN NATURE CONSIDERED AS A GROUND FOR 
THANKSGIVING 

KNOW YE THAT THE LORD HE IS GOD ; IT IS HE THAT HATH MADE US, AND 
NOT WE OURSELVES J WE ARE HIS PEOPLE AND THE SHEEP OF HIS PASTURE. 
ENTER INTO HIS GATES WITH THANKSGIVING, AND INTO HIS COURTS WITH 

praise; be thankful unto him and bless his name. — Psalm c. 3— 4. 

The theme of gratitude which is here presented to 
us, is, our existence, our nature. " It is He that hath 
made us, and not we ourselves : w r e are his people and 
the sheep of his pasture." It is not what we possess 
or enjoy, but what we are ; or it is what we possess 
and enjoy in relation to what we are, that I would 
make the subject of grateful commemoration in our 
present meditations. 

In truth, every call to praise, is but an echo of this. 
For if it be duly considered, w 7 ill it not be found, that 
all possible blessings, — all that can be the occasions of 
thanksgiving, — must be referred back, when we trace 
them, to the blessing which is conferred upon us in a 
nature capable of enjoying them. The bounty and 
the beauty of the world, were nothing but for the seeing 
eye and the sensitive frame ; the wisdom which all 
things teach were nothing, but for the perceiving mind ; 
the blessed relations of our social existence would be 
all a barren waste, if we had not a heart to feel them ; 
and all the tendencies and conditions of our life and 
being, all our labours and pleasures, all our joys and 



104 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



sorrows, would be but one dark struggle or darker 
despair, if we had not a moral soul and will, to bring 
good out of evil, imperishable virtue out of perishable 
circumstance, and immortal victory out of the ever- 
pressing strife of human existence. 

Every blessing, then, hath the essential condition 
that makes it such, in my very humanity. I am called 
upon to be thankful, for food and raiment, for the 
bounties and gratuities of nature, for green fields and 
whitening harvests, for peace and freedom and govern- 
ment ; and for those blessings that are beyond and 
above all — the immeasurable and eternal blessings of 
religion. I am called upon to be thankful for all these 
things, and I am so. But still I must say, and must so 
answer, that I cannot be thankful for one of these 
blessings, without being first, and last, and throughout, 
thankful that I am a man. 

The advantage of being a man, therefore, is what I 
propose now to consider ; the blessing bestowed in our 
very humanity ; that indeed without which we had not 
the power of gratitude. 

I am thankful, then, that I am a man. This is the 
central fact, around which all things range themselves 
in clusters of blessings. 

I am thankful that I am human. I am thankful 
that I am not a clod ; that I am not a brute. Nay, 
nor do I ask to be an angel. I am glad that I am 
human. My very humanity, despite of all that is said 
against it, is a blessing and a gladness to me. Although 
it may sound strangely — to the thoughtless man on one 
account, and to the theologian on another ; yet will I 
say, that I accept this humanity thankfully — with all 
its imperfections, with all its weaknesses, with all its 
exposures to error and sin. None but a high moral 
nature could be so exposed. Although I stand amidst 



AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 



105 



a multitude, where the infirmities of this nature meet 
me on every side, in many a shaded brow and pale 
cheek, in many a countenance where grief and glad- 
ness are strangely mingled, where joy itself is touched 
with sadness : yet still I say, that with all the joy and 
sadness of this nature, included, interwoven, and 
making up one momentous, mysterious and touching 
experience, I accept, I embrace, I cherish it with grati- 
tude : I rejoice that it is mine. 

I do not wish, I repeat, to be something else. I do 
not wish that I were an angel ; and I do not wish that 
I were like the inhabitant of some distant star. I do 
not know what he is. But this humanity that throbs 
in my bosom — I know what this is ; it is near me, it 
is dear unto me; I rejoice that I am a man. 

And upon this I insist, and am going to insist, be- 
cause there is, I fear, a commonly prevailing disparage- 
ment of our humanity, which leaves no proper, no 
grateful sense of what it is. There is a feeling in 
many minds, as if it were a misery, a misfortune, al- 
most a disgrace to be a man. I am not speaking mere- 
ly of the theological disparagement — the dull fiction 
of oriental philosophy and of scholastic darkness — 
though that, doubtless, has helped to create the com- 
mon impression, that it is but a poor advantage, but a 
doubtful good, to be a man. I am not speaking alone 
of that scorn and desecration, by theology, of the very 
humanity which it ought to have loved and helped. 
There are other causes that have tended to the same 
result : human pride, misanthropy, discontent, anger 
with our kind, anger with our lot ; and the natural 
sense too, of human ills and errors. It is curious to 
see how almost all our higher literature betrays its 
trust to the very humanity which it celebrates, — denies 
in general what it teaches in detail — heaps satire and 



106 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



scorn upon mankind, and yet makes men its heroes. 
It is wonderful to see how. not authors only, but men 
generally, can berate and vilify the very being that 
they are. Humanity — man — these are not contrasted, 
but correlative things ; you cannot eulogize the former, 
and desecrate the latter ; the former is the ideal, the 
latter the real ; the one is the picture, the other, the 
original. What man is, must furnish the elements 
from which we draw out the idea of what man should 
be ; what you think, what you feel, is human, and 
that tells what humanity should be. There is doubt- 
less a struggle between these conceptions, of the actual 
humanity and the ideal humanity ; and for this very 
struggle too, I admire the human being. It could not 
agitate inferior natures. That man can separate the 
good from the evil, and set it up as a model ; that he 
can sigh over the evil, is a praise and a glory to him. 
Ay, and that he can satirize, scorn and execrate the 
evil, and can do it with such uncompromising hearti- 
ness that he goes too far, seems to me not a disreputa- 
ble tendency of his nature. There is something right 
then, something respectable in the leaning to darker 
views. In this respect, there is something right in the- 
ology, in literature, and in common opinion. But for 
the sake of justice and of gratitude, for man's sake, and 
for God's sake, if I may reverently say so, let not all 
this go too far ; let it not spread the shadow over all, 
lest it hide from us, both man and God. I must there- 
fore resist this tendency : because it is wrong, and es- 
pecially at present, because it hinders a just gratitude 
to the Almighty Creator, for the nature he has given 
us. 

For this — what we are — is, I repeat, the central 
truth around which all other truths that appeal to grat- 
itude, do range themselves : it is the sun in the system 



AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 107 



of God's mercies — their common bond and enlightener. 
It will not do to set up that antagonism which is com- 
monly taught between man and God ; to say that God 
indeed is altogether good, but that man is altogether 
bad ; that God is glorious, but that man is altogether 
mean ; that it is proper indeed to celebrate God's good- 
ness and glory, but that this is especially to be done 
by discrediting all worth and value in man. Who is 
it, after all, that celebrates the goodness of God ? It is 
no other than man. The worshipper, the adorer, the 
singer of praises in this world, is none other than man. 
If his nature is all contrast to the divine, what is the 
value of his praise, of his judgment 1 Nay, how came 
the divine to be known ? Man, I say, is the worship- 
per. And what more is the angel, unless that he is so 
in a higher measure, or with a purer intent. There 
must then be a beauty in human as well as in angelic 
nature, or all the beauty of the creation and of its 
Maker, could avail nothing — were nothing, to us. I 
know not what eyes look out from yonder bright orbs 
of heaven ; but I know that eye is not, nor soul there, 
that can see any thing brighter, lovelier, more majestic, 
more divine, than the glory of Him that made us : that 
made the earth so fair, and the heavens so beautiful 
and sublime. I claim kindred with those dwellers on 
high. I bow with them in adoration. I join my voice 
to their lofty anthem. Shall I think lightly of this 
glorious affinity ? 

No, I am thankful that I am a man. Boldly do I 
say it : that I rejoice, that I delight in my nature. I 
rejoice that God has made me, and made me such an 
one — a sensitive, social, religious being — one of the 
seers, one of the worshippers, one of the immortals. 
Mourn I well may, that I have failed so far, so lamen- 
tably far, from what he has made me for. But still I 



108 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



must be none the less thankful for the wonderful sig- 
natures that he has set upon my being-. 

Does any one critically ask, why, with such repeti- 
tion, I insist upon this ? I answer, because I would 
make, on this point, a distinct and decided impression 
of what I mean to say. I mean to resist that ingrati- 
tude which holds it to be a misfortune or a mischance 
to be a man. I mean, if I can, to roll off that burden 
of darkness and desolation, with which our humanity 
is thought to overshadow the world. It is the light in 
the world, and not the darkness. It is the eye that 
sees, and not the cloud that obscures. Or if there be 
cloud and darkness in it, as well as over it ; in it too, 
and in it alone on earth, is the power of vision that 
can, and does, and will see through all. If it be not, 
then, I repeat, there is nothing in this world that can 
see ; and all, without and within, is darkness ; dark- 
ness as the shadow of death — as the gloom of the 
grave. No, it is a good thing to be a man, or else there 
is no good in this world. Let no one's heart sink 
within him, when that name, dear, and holy — the name 
of man, is uttered. Let no one give himself to dull, 
sighing, sorrowing, complaining, disconsolate thoughts 
of his humanity. It is a high and glorious gift. 

I exist. What a blessing and a wonder is that ! A 
few years ago, and I was not ; no spot in the fair uni- 
verse, held me. From dark and void nothingness, I 
am called to the glad precincts of being; into the liv- 
ing and loving bosom of nature ; into communion with 
the things that are ; myself — chiefest blessing ! — my- 
self amono 1 the things that are. And do I ask to 
whom I owe this blessing? Whence camel — do I 
ask? What one among the mysterious powers of 
heaven gave me this wonderful being ? Reason an- 
swers, and Holy Writ answers, there is but One who 



AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 109 

creates. And the Psalmist teaches us, and says, " it 
is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves." It is 
He, God, that hath called me into being ; to stand be- 
neath these shining heavens ; to look around upon the 
loveliness of earth ; to breathe the air of verdant fields 
and see the light of rising and setting suns ; to behold 
the moulded beauty of sloping vallies and swelling 
mountains, and the flashing light of streams and ocean 
waves. Every body says that this is the darkest world 
in the universe. Who knows it? Who knows that 
there is any one among all the spheres of heaven more 
beautiful than this ? The old Greek sages thought 
not thus — who used the same word, kosmos, for beauty 
and for the world. Other kind of beauty there may 
be, but who shall dare to say that any creation has 
proceeded from God, that is not all beautiful ? I do not 
like that phrase — u this dark world." Poetry may use 
it, and in some relations and in some moods, there may 
be a propriety in its use. But what I complain of, is, 
that the feeling has sunk down into the common heart ; 
the unadmiring, unholy, unthankful feeling, that this 
is a dark world ; the darkest of all worlds. I complain 
that the casual shade of poetry has settled into a fixed, 
opaque incrustation over the general mind ; that it is 
common to feel as if this were a coarse, ungenial, un- 
grateful, almost an ill-made world ; as if it were the 
rough-hewn penitentiary of the creation, frowning upon 
us, from its granite walls, and its dark and dingy 
arches. And therefore I say, who knows it ? Who 
knows that there is any thing in the far-lying fields 
of heaven, more beautiful, of more entrancing loveli- 
ness, than the world we dwell in ? I say, who knows 
it ? But I might say rather, shame on the supersti- 
tious weakness, the uncultivated thought, the unkin- 
dled apathy, that finds nothing here but a prison wall, 
10 



110 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



surrounding a convict's yard ! Shame on the eye that 
cannot see and on the heart that cannot feel, the won- 
ders and beauties of this fair and lovely creation around 
us ! No poetry, hath it ? Nay, nor no piety — none at 
least that is a fit offering to the glorious Creator ! 

And as man stands amidst the fair creation, with 
what a wonderful apparatus is he provided for com- 
munication with it ; with a perception for every ele- 
ment ; for the sweets of every bounty in nature, for 
the fragrance of every field, for the soft, embracing air, 
for the sounds that come from every hill and mountain 
and murmuring stream and ocean wave ; for the light 
that beams from the far distant stars. We look upon 
the lately invented electromagnetic telegraph, as a 
wonder ; and it is so. But man's whole sensitive 
frame is a more wonderful telegraph. He wakes from 
sleep ; and all nature around becomes a living pres- 
ence ; life streams in through every pore of the quick- 
feeling vesture with which he is clothed. He listens ; 
and into the polished and waxen chambers of the ear, 
comes the hum of cities, the bleating of flocks upon 
the hills, the sound of the woodman's axe in the deep 
forest — comes the echoing of the wide welkin above 
him — comes above all, the music of human speech. 
He opens his eye, and stars that rise upon the infinite 
seas of space, are telegraphed to his vision. 

We are proverbially insensible to the value of that 
which we have always possessed ; of which we can- 
not go back in our conscious thought, to the origin. 
If seeing were an invention, how should we admire it ! 
We admire the telescope — itself the product of a reas- 
oning power which God has given us, and which 
will doubtless discover yet greater things. 

But suppose that the eye had at first been formed to 
see only this world ; and all beyond had been a wall 



AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. Ill 

of darkness ; and that then, at some given era, there 
had been superadded to that organ, the telescopic pow- 
er, and upon the human eye had burst the wonders of 
heaven : how dark on the page of human history, 
would have lain the ages before ; and how would that 
era be forever celebrated, almost as the beginning of 
human existence ! And what is the telescope com- 
pared with this ! — built at much expense ; a cumbrous 
weight to be carried from place to place ; and con- 
structed with elaborate mechanism to turn its axis one 
way and another ; while in the beggar's eye, as he 
lifts it to heaven, and turns it unconsciously from point 
to point, is an instrument, which all the skill of science, 
aided by the wealth of empires, could never construct. 

Say you not, then, even considering man in this 
light, only as endowed with senses, that it is good to 
be a man ? And yet considering him thus, we have 
only placed him upon the stage of his life's great ac- 
tion, and given him the materials and the instruments 
with which he is to work. 

Standing on this theatre, he sees, he hears, he ob- 
serves, indeed ; and this is wonderful. But how much 
more wonderful is that transmutation, by which ob- 
servation becomes knowledge ; sight, perception ; and 
hearing, oracular wisdom ! The world stands in its 
majesty and beauty ; but it is transformed into another 
kind of majesty and beauty by the labours of science and 
art. The result — the actual state of human knowledge, 
it seems to me, is worthy of more consideration than it 
always receives. I cannot think that an angel, if he 
were to visit this world, would look upon this structure 
of its labouring wisdom with disparaging scorn. The 
world has done its work — done some work, surely. 
Behold the fabric of science it has raised ; with its vast 
and ranged collections of objects from all nature ; from 



112 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



fields and forests, from mountains and mines, from 
woods and waters ; with its curious and world-inter- 
preting- laboratories ; with its million-volumed libraries, 
stored with the wisdom of ages ; with its illumined 
chambers of philosophy, and its dome, the grand ob- 
servatory of the skies, swelling up to heaven; — and 
then see how man takes from the majestic halls of 
science, the principles and results which he applies to 
the advancement of his comfort, civilization and wel- 
fare ; how he is making nature every day more and 
more his helper and his friend ; how he takes the 
swift lightning and makes it his telegraphic messenger ; 
how he chains to his fiery car on the land and on the 
sea that elemental power which he had known before 
only in the whirlwind and the storm. Nay, look at 
that system of practical wisdom which he has wrought 
out from the daily experience of life — the system of 
common sense — that which instructs him in the knowl- 
edge of men and the uses of things ; that aptitude and 
adjustment of his faculties to every exigency ; that 
which, if a man utterly lacks, he ceases to be a man, 
and is pronounced a fool. Because it is called common 
sense, it is considered as something ordinary and indif- 
ferent. We will never learn that the greatest things 
are common ; the greatest gifts, universal. Not the 
philosopher alone is wise. Nay, every man is wiser as 
a man than any man is, merely as a learned man. 
All the wisdom there is in books, is not equal to the 
wisdom that floats in the common air about us ; the 
wisdom of life ; the wisdom from which books draw all 
their life ; the wisdom that is gained, not in the study 
nor the cloister, but in the great school which God has 
built— the school of life. Consider it, proud philoso- 
pher ! or self-complacent man of rank or of wealth ! 
Suppose yourself deprived of that light of common 



AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 113 



sense in which the multitude walks: what then, 
would your libraries or your palaces, or your thrones, 
avail you ? Avail you ? They had not been. They 
had not been written, nor built, nor lifted up. And 
what would you be without the common food of un- 
written reason ? A starveling, an idiot, a fool. Yes ? 
though you sat upon a throne, you would be sent out, 
like Nebuchadnezzar, to eat grass with the ox. 

When I think of all that man, as an intellectual 
being, has acquired and achieved, it amazes me that 
any body can speak of this world as the abode of a 
poor, toiling, drudging, ignorant, contemptible race. I 
would beat down every aristocracy whether of birth or 
learning, or wealth, that says this. I think the world 
has done very well — done much, though not all that 
it might. I think this a very respectable race — respec- 
table ? — why, a wonderful race. Do not answer me, 
now, with a satirical thought of the poor, dwarfed, ig- 
norant creatures that you sometimes see around you. 
Do not cast their faults upon the whole family. It is 
a serious matter that we are considering. It is a serious 
thing to defame and belie a whole world. It is a thing 
you could not do at all, but for the vagueness of your 
contemplation. You could not so discredit your fami- 
ly, your family circle, your village, your city, your 
country. Oh ! no, this is too near you. Nay, and let 
another speak ill of your city or your country, not to 
say your family, and he will hear your indignant de- 
fence. But when you speak of the great world, you 
seem to think that its shoulders are broad enough to 
bear any thing. It is as if you shot an arrow into the 
great, circumambient air ; it can neither hit nor hurt 
any body. Or it is the world in past ages that you 
speak of; a dead world that cannot answer ; it lies be- 
fore you, quite a passive theme 3 and you seem to think 
10* 



114 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



it a fine thing*, to write cold history or scornful satire 
upon it, as a wretched and worthless w T orld. I cannot 
agree with this unbrotherly scorn, because the world 
is its object. 

Nay, and there is one yet more serious aspect of this 
subject ; that in which it presents a providence. It 
seems to me a poor business for philosophy, first to 
make the world as mean and base as it can, and then 
to turn about and try to explain why it was made at 
all ; how its existence can be, in any way, reconciled 
wdth the goodness of providence. A hard problem it is 
then for the philosopher ; too hard for him ; and he 
worries himself with it in vain. It gives but little sat- 
isfaction in the case, to say that, although men have 
been fools, they might have been wiser if they would. 
The truth is, they have been wiser than the cynical 
philosopher admits. The case is not so hard as he 
makes it. And he must make it better, or he can 
never solve his problem. None but a more consider- 
ate and fraternal philosophy ever will solve it. On the 
side of this fraternal philosophy I take my place ; and 
in the spirit of it, I say again, that considering myself 
as an intellectual being, and pretending to be no wiser 
than the average of men, I do not think it a misfor- 
tune to be a man ; I am thankful that I am a man. 

And what think you, my friends, of society ; that 
living mechanism of human relationships that spreads 
itself over the world ; that finer essence within it, 
which as truly moves it as any power, heavy or ex- 
pansive, moves your sounding manufactories or swift- 
flying cars? The man-machine hurries to and fro 
upon the earth, moves this way and that, stretches 
out its hands on every side, to toil, to barter, to un- 
numbered labours and enterprises ; and almost ever 
the motive, that which moves it, is something that 



AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 115 

takes hold of the comforts, affections, and hopes of 
social existence. It is true that the mechanism often 
works with difficulty, drags heavily, grates and screams 
with harsh collision. And it is true, that the essence 
of finer motive, becoming intermixed with baser, with 
coarser ingredients, often clogs, obstructs, jars and de- 
ranges the free and noble action of social life. But 
surely he is not wise, and will not be duly grateful, 
who turns the eye of the cynic upon all this, and loses 
the blessed sense of social good in its perversions. 
That I can be a friend, that I can have a friend, 
though it were but one in the world ; that fact, that 
blessedness I will set against all the sufferings of my 
social nature. That there is such a place on earth as 
a home ; that resort, that sanctuary of in-walled and 
shielded joy, I will set against all the surrounding des- 
olations of life. That I can be a true, social man ; 
that I can speak my true thought, amidst all the jang- 
lings of controversy and the warring of opinions ; that 
fact from within, outweighs all facts from without. 

The truth is, that in the visible aspect and action of 
society, often repulsive and annoying, we are apt to 
lose the due sense of its invisible blessings. As in the 
frame of nature, it is not the coarse and palpable, not 
soils and rains, not even fields and flowers, that are so 
beautiful, as the invisible spirit of wisdom and beauty 
that pervades it ; so in the frame of society, it is the 
invisible, and therefore unobserved, that is most beau- 
ttful. And yet in the visible, I have often thought 
there is more beauty than is often acknowledged. 
The human countenance, I am wont to think, is more 
beautiful than it is usually considered. I speak not 
here of what is commonly called beauty ; that which 
arises from symmetry of feature and delicacy of complex- 
ion. There is a beauty in almost every countenance 



116 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



— the wonderful beauty and power of expression — that 
far surpasses all that these too much lauded charms 
can bestow upon any. An artist once said to me. when 
I spoke of the common faces he had to paint ; no, 
there is a beauty in the human countenance that I can 
never paint : what I meet with, every day in the street 
— the plainest that I meet — lean never paint its beauty." 
I felt at once rebuked, and obliged too, as one that re- 
ceives a wiser thought than his own. Yes. it is true, 
and I see it every day. There are expressions of in- 
genuousness and modesty, of love and pity, breaking 
out from the plainest and the roughest features ; there 
are evanescent shadings of thought and feeling flitting 
over every countenance, that never were transferred to 
the canvass. Worldly fashion may set up its laws and 
its idols ; but it were a more wisely-instructed eye that 
should see loveliness every where. 

Let not this be thought too trivial for this place ; I 
speak of the out-shining of the secret soul, through 
" the human face divine.*' And indeed, how much is 
secret and unseen in the frame of society ! What an 
invisible law is that — an invisible law of God it is — ■ 
that reigns over the relationship of sex ! The delicacy 
of that relation is stronger than any human govern- 
ment ; a graceful veil, and yet a linked chain. It is 
like the at once attractive and repelling electric forces, 
which, unchained, would explode with crash and ruin, 
and yet are ever held fast by an invisible hand ! Or 
will you go down to the rougher paths of life ? What 
nerves the arm of toil ? If man minded himself alone, 
he would fling down the spade and the ax, and rush 
to the wilderness, or roam through the world as a wil- 
derness ; and he would make the world a desert. His 
home, which he sees not, perhaps, but once or twice in 
a day ; that home is the invisible bond of the world. 



AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 117 



And what is it that gives the loftiest character to busi- 
ness, to trade and commerce? What but the good, 
strong and noble faith that men put in one another ? 
Fraud there is ; but it is the exception, in the goings 
on of business ; honesty is the rule, and all the frauds 
in the world cannot, cannot tear the great bond of hu- 
man confidence. If they could, commerce would furl 
its sail on all seas, and all the cities of the world 
would crumble to ruins. There stands a man on the 
other side of the world ! — whom you never saw, whom 
you never will see ; and yet that man's bare character, 
do you hold good for a bond of thousands. And what 
is the most striking feature of the political state ? Not 
governments, not constitutions, not laws, not enact- 
ments, not police— but the universal will of the people 
to be governed by the common weal. Take off that 
restraint, and no government on earth can stand for 
an hour. 

We have now considered our being as sensitive, in- 
tellectual, and social, and as furnishing, in each one of 
these characters, signal occasions for gratitude to its 
Author. There is one higher character presenting 
still stronger claims, and yet demanding still higher 
faith for its recognition ; I mean, of course, the moral, 
the spiritual, the divine nature that man possesses. 
For here it is precisely — in this region where the mor- 
al will puts forth its power, that it encounters such dif- 
ficulty and is guilty of such failure, that it seems, no 
doubt, at times, as if the world were overshadowed 
with sins and sorrows. 

Of the actual attainments of this spiritual nature, 
it is true, we must entertain but a moderate and hum- 
bling estimate. And yet I must say, that the nature 
has done more and better than it always has credit 



118 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



for. 1 must confess that I am led at times to wonder, not 
that the world is so bad as it is, but to wonder that it 
is not worse. Human nature has been so badly treat- 
ed by those who should have known it better, that its 
virtues sometimes more surprise me than its vices. 
We hear indeed of horrible atrocities at which society 
stands aghast ; but when I think of the undisciplined 
strength of passion, the untamed anger that boils in 
the human breast, the unschooled propensities that 
rage in the human frame, I wonder rather at the lim- 
its that are set to their range. 

There's a Divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough hew them how we will. 

How few men are as bad as they might be ; as bad 
as they are tempted to be ! How many checks are 
there in the moral system of our being and life ! How 
many painful emotions beset the evil course ; how 
many admonitory voices are there of sin-inflicted suf- 
fering, disease and sorrow, that warn and almost com- 
pel man to be wise ! That which divines have called 
" restraining grace" — that restraint indeed of the Great 
Will that reigns over us — what a marvellous feature 
is it in the moral economy ! 

And that I can suffer when I sin, that I can sorrow 
for the wrong that is in me, that I can sigh and strug- 
gle to be free from it — I am glad of that. Were it not 
for this moral nature, this conscience, all were wreck- 
ed ; but it exists, it is strong, it works mightily in the 
human heart. I know not ivho makes it suffer and 
sorrow and struggle as it does, but God. It seems to 
me that all institutions, all preachings, all machinery 
of human device, are weak, compared with this all- 
pervading power of God that works within us. And 



AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 119 

indeed all other means are nothing but as they take 
hold of that power. 

And if by that power I can, and do, rise to virtue, 
if I gain the victory over temptation, if I attain to a 
true and solid peace, to an inward sufficiency, to the 
supreme and absorbing love of goodness and of God, 
then indeed are my feet set upon a rock, and a new 
song is put into my mouth ; and it is a song of thanks- 
giving. Nothing on earth or in heaven, can ever be 
such a cause of thankfulness with me, as this. 

What an interest belongs to the very strifes and tri- 
als that may lead to this ? A man who makes a for- 
tune on the burning soil of India, is thankful to that 
country — with all its heat and dust and languor and 
disease, he is thankful to it. A man who stands here 
at home, with energy and opportunity to repair his 
broken fortunes, blesses that opportunity and that en- 
ergy. So do we stand in the field of the world. We 
may have failed to a certain extent, or we may have 
failed altogether, to secure the great interest of life. 
But still the opportunity for better efforts is given ; time 
is lengthened out ; the day and the means of grace 
are ours ; conscience is in our hearts, and the Bible is 
in our hands, and prayer may be on our lips ; all is not 
lost ; the time past may be redeemed, the erring steps 
retrieved ; our very errors may teach us ; our sad expe- 
rience may teach us — blessed be its sadness then ! — ■ 
and we may rise to sanctity, to blessedness and to 
heaven. And if, I say again, we can and do thus suc- 
ceed ; if, from this often-deceiving, and ever-changing 
and fleeting world, we may draw and fix within us, 
one thing which is sure and steadfast and immovable 
and always abounding, one feeling that is assurance 
and sufficiency and victory, a happiness in wisdom, in 



120 



ON HUMAN NATURE. 



love and in God, which is. we know, in its very nature 
everlasting, which, we feel, will never desert us, will 
never let us be unhappy, go where on earth, go where 
in heaven, w r e will : what a prize, to bear away from 
a struggling life and from the battling world, is this ? 

O© O O / 

Who does not say, " thanks be to God V 1 And who 
that understands the great, comforting and redeeming 
ministration of the Gospel to this end, does not say — 
" thanks be to God through our Lord Jesus Christ V 
Yes, my brethren, through Jesus Christ, above all. 
We have not been left to struggle alone. One has 
come to us, bearing the image of God, bearing the mis- 
sion of God ; One, all compassion and tenderness, all 
truth and loveliness, has come to us and taught us, 
and helped us, and prayed for us, and died for us : and 
to him, under God, do we owe the prize. And when 
it is gained and borne away to heaven, then and there 
shall we say, u blessing and honour and glory and 
power, be unto Him that sitteth on the throne, and to 
the Lamb forever and ever !" 

And in fine, my friends, that we shall bear away 
this prize from earth to heaven — is that to be lament- 
ed ? Shall that thought check and chill all our glad- 
ness and thanksgiving? 

I rejoice that I am a man — a sensitive, intellectual, 
social, moral being : above all, that I am a moral being. 
I rejoice that I have a conscience, and a knowledge of 
God. I rejoice that I am a being subject to a great, 
moral trial. I lament that I have fallen, but all the 
more am I thankful that I can rise. I thank God that 
I can spiritually sorrow and struggle, and spiritually 
can gain the victory. But now shall I surprise you— 
shall I seem to say too much if I say, I thank God that 
I am mortal. I thank God that he has put a limit to 



AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING. 121 

this earthly probation. Not with grieving but with 
hope, do I recognise the solemn truth that one day — 
what day I know not, and for that too am I thankful 
— that one day, appointed in God's wisdom, I shall die ! 
— yes, that I shall die ! — that I shall lay aside this 
body for another form of being ! I would not live 
always. I would not always feel the burdens and bar- 
riers with which mortality has surrounded and over- 
laid me. Some time or other, I would part hence : 
some time or other I would that my friends should 
part hence. Oh ! could we go in families ! But 
that too, I see, would not be well. For then how 
bound up in our families should we be — how selfish 
and how reserved and exclusive ! No, I take the great 
dispensation as it is, and I am thankful for it. All its 
strong bonds, all its urgent tasks, all its disciplinary 
trials — I accept all, and accept all with gratitude. 
Sweet, angel visits of peace are these also ; thrilling 
pleasures in my sensitive frame : lofty towerings and 
triumphs of intellect; blessed bonds and joys of society; 
the glorious vision of the infinite perfection ; I am 
thankful for them all. I am thankful that every age 
of life has its character, task and hope ; that childhood 
comes forth upon the stream of life, in its frail but 
fairy and gay vessel — with its guardian angel by its 
side — the banks covered with flowers, and the vermil- 
ion tints of morning upon the hills ; that youth stands 
amidst the bright landscape, stretching its eye and its 
arm to the cloud-castle of honour and hope ; that man- 
hood struggles amidst the descending storm, with re- 
signation, with courage, with an eye fixed on heaven ; 
and that although shapes of wrath and terror are amidst 
the elements, the guardian angel too is there, holding 
its bright station in the clouds ; and that when age at 
11 



122 



ON HUMAN NATURE, ETC. 



last comes, life's struggle over, life's voyage completed 
— that light from heaven streams down upon the dark- 
ness and desolation of earth, and the good angel is by 
its side, and pointing upward says. " thither — thither 
shalt thou go " !* 

* The allusion here, is to that admirable series of paintings, by 

Mr Cole, entitled w The Stream of Life." 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



VIII. 

THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 

NOW A THING WAS SECRETLY BROUGHT TO ME, AND MINE EAR RECEIVED A 
LITTLE THEREOF. IN THOUGHTS FROM THE VISIONS OF THE NIGHT, WHEN 
DEEP SLEEP FALLETH ON MEN J FEAR CAME UPON ME, AND TREMBLING 
WHICH MADE ALL MY BONES TO SHAKE. THEN A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE 
MY FACE, AND THE HAIR OF MY FLESH STOOD UP. IT STOOD STILL J BUT I 
COULD NOT DISCERN THE FORM THEREOF; AN IMAGE WAS BEFORE MINE 

eyes; there was silence; and i heard a voice. — Job iv. 12 — 16. 

Human life to many, is like the vision of Eliphaz. 
Dim and shadowy vails hang round its awful reve- 
lations. Teachings there are to man, in solemn and 
silent hours, in thoughts from the visions of the night, 
in vague impressions and unshaped reveries ; but, on 
this very account, they fail to be interpreted and under- 
stood. There is much teaching; but there is also 
much unbelief. 

There is a scepticism, indeed, about the entire 
moral significance of life, which I propose, in this dis- 
course, to examine. It is a scepticism, sometimes 
taking the form of philosophy, sometimes of misan- 
throphy and scorn, and sometimes of heavy and hard- 
bound worldliness, which denies that life has any lofty, 
spiritual import : which resolves all into a series of 
toils and trifles and vanities, or of gross and palpable 
pursuits and acquisitions. It is a scepticism, not 



124 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



about creeds, not about Christianity; it lies farther 
back — lies far deeper ; it is a scepticism about the 
very meaning and intent of our whole existence. 

This scepticism I propose to meet ; and for this pur- 
pose, I propose to see what argument can be extracted 
out of the very grounds on which it founds itself. 

The pertinency of my text to my purpose, as I have 
already intimated, lies in this ; there is much of deep 
import in this life, like that which Eliphaz saw in the 
visions of the night — not clear, not palpable, or at least 
not usually recognised and made familiar ; but it 
cometh, as it were in the night, when deep sleep falleth 
on men ; it cometh in the still and solitary hours; it 
cometh in the time of meditation or of sorrow, or of 
some awful and overshadowing crisis of life. It is 
secretly brought to the soul, and the ear receiveth a 
little thereof. It is as a spirit that passeth before us, 
and vanisheth into the night shadow ; or it standeth 
still, but we cannot discern the form thereof; there is 
an undefined image of truth ; there is silence ; and at 
length there is a voice. 

It is of these unrecognised revelations of our present 
being, that I would endeavour to give the interpreta- 
tion ; I would attempt to give them a voice. 

But let us spread out a little in the first place, the 
sceptic's argument. It says ; "What is there in human 
existence that accords with your lofty, Christian theory ? 
You may talk about the grandeur of a human life, the 
sublime wants and aspirations of the human soul, the 
solemn consciousness, amidst all life's cares and toils, 
of an immortal destiny : it is all a beautiful dream ! 
Look over the world's history, and say — what in- 
timations does it furnish of that majestic design, the 
world's salvation ? Look at any company of toiling 
and plodding men in the country around you ; and 



MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



125 



what are they thinking" of, but acres and crops, of 
labour and the instruments of labour ? Go into the 
noisy and crowded manufactory, and what is there, 
but machinery — animate or inanimate : the mind as 
truly girded and harnessed to the work, as the turning- 
lathe or the banded wheel ? Gaze upon the thronged 
streets, or upon holiday crowds, mixing the oaths of the 
profane with the draughts of the intemperate ; and where 
is the spiritual soul that you talk of? Or look at hu- 
man life in a large view of it, and of what is it made up ? 
u Trouble and weariness n — you see that it is the 
cynic's complaint — " trouble and weariness ; the disap- 
pointment of inexperience or the dulness of familiarity ; 
the frivolity of the gay or the unprofitable sadness of 
melancholy ; the heavy ennui of the idle or the plodding 
care of the busy ; the suffering of disease or the wast- 
ed energy of health ; frailty, its lot and its doom, death ; 
a world of things wasted, worn out, perishing in the 
use, tending to nothing, and accomplishing nothing ; 
so complete the frivolity of life with many, that they 
actually think more of the fine apparel they shall 
wear, than of the inward spirit, which you say is to 
inherit the immortal ages !*' 

All this, alas ! is too true ; but it is not true to the ex- 
tent nor in the exclusive sense, alleged. That but few 
meditate on their lot as they ought, is perfectly true ; 
but there are impressions and convictions that come into 
the mind through other channels than those of medita- 
tion. They come perhaps, like the shadowy vision of Eli- 
phaz, in darkness and silence — vague, indistinct, mys- 
terious, awful ; or they come in the form of certain 3 but 
neglected and forgotten truths. And they come, too, 
from those very scenes, in which the eye of the objector 
can see nothing but material grossness or thoughtless 
levity. This is what I shall especially attempt to 



126 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



show. I shall not undertake, in this discourse, to go 
farther ; but I believe that I shall not perform a use- 
less service to the true faith of our being, if I may be 
able, in some measure, to unveil and bring to light, 
those secret intimations which are often smothered, 
indeed, but which from time to time, are flashing out 
from the cloud of human cares and pursuits. 

" Man," it is said, " is bound up in materialism, im- 
prisoned by the senses, limited to the gross and pal- 
pable ; far-reaching thoughts, soaring aspirations are 
found in essays and speculations about him rather than 
in his own experience ; they are in books, rather than 
in brick-yards and ploughed fields and tumultuous 
marts." 

What stupendous revelations are cloaked and almost 
hidden by familiarity ! This very category of scepti- 
cism ; what is it, but the blind admission of the sub- 
limest truth ? A man is recognized as standing amidst 
this palpable cloud of care and labour ; enclosed, it is 
said, shut up in sense and matter ; but still a man ! 
A dungeon is this world, if you please so to represent 
it ; but in this dungeon, is a prisoner — moaning, sor- 
rowing, sighing to be free. A wilderness world it is, 
in the thought of many ; but one is struggling through 
this wilderness, who imparts to it a loftier grandeur 
than its own ; his articulate voice, his breathed prayer, 
or his shout amidst the dim solitudes — nay, the very 
sound of his axe in the forest depths — is sublimer than 
all the solemn symphonies of autumn winds sweeping 
through its majestic aisles. 

Grant that matter and sense are man's teachers ; 
and consider these teachings in their very humblest 
form, in their very lowest grade — what they teach per- 
force, and in spite of man's will. What are they ? 
Materialism itself suggests to man the thought of an 



MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 127 

immaterial principle. The senses awaken within 
him the consciousness of a soul. Of a soul, 1 say ; 
and what is that ? Oh ! the very word, soul, is itself 
soiled by a common use, till we know not what it 
means. So that this universal endowment of human- 
ity, this dread endowment, by which infinity, eternity, 
nay and divinity, belong to its innate and inmost con- 
ceptions, can be at once admitted and almost over- 
looked, in the account of human existence. 

In man the humblest instruments reveal the loftiest 
energies. This is not enthusiasm, but philosophy. 
Modern philosophy has distinctly unfolded this princi- 
ple ; that all our mental conceptions suggest their op- 
posites ; the finite, the infinite ; the seen, the unseen ; 
time, eternity ; creation, a God. The child that has 
tried his eye upon surrounding objects, soon learns to 
send his thought through the boundless air, and to em- 
brace the idea of infinite space. The being that is 
conscious of having lived a certain time, comes to en- 
tertain as correlative to that consciousness, the concep- 
tion of eternity. These are among the fundamental 
facts of all human experience. Such, to a man in dis- 
tinction from an animal, is the instrumentality Of his 
very senses. As with a small telescope, a few feet in 
length and breadth, man learns to survey heavens be- 
yond heavens, almost infinite ; so with the aid of lim- 
ited senses and faculties does he rise to the conception 
of what is beyond all visible heavens, beyond all con- 
ceivable time, beyond all imagined power, beauty and 
glory. Such is a human life. Man stands before us, 
visibly confined within the narrowest compass ; and 
yet from this humble frame, stream out on every side 
the rays of thought, to infinity, to eternity, to omnipo- 
tence, to boundless grandeur and goodness. Let him 
who will, account this existence to be nothing but van- 



128 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



ity and dust. I must be allowed on better grounds, to 
look upon it as that, in whose presence all the visible 
majesty of worlds and suns and systems sink to noth- 
ing. Systems and suns and worlds are all compre- 
hended in a single thought of this being, whom we do 
not yet know. 

But let us pass from these primary convictions which 
are suggested by matter and sense, to those spheres of 
human life, where many can see nothing but weary 
labour, or trifling pleasure, or heavy ennui. 

Labour, then — what is it, and what doth it mean ? 
Its fervid brow, its toiling hand, its weary step ; w r hat 
do they mean? It was in the power of God to provide 
for us, as he has provided for the beasts of the field 
and the fowls of heaven : so that human hands should 
neither toil nor spin. He who appointed the high hills 
as a refuge for the wild goats, and the rocks for the 
conies, might as easily have caused marble cities and 
hamlets of enduring granite, to have been productions 
of nature's grand masonry. In secret forges and by 
eternal fires, might every instrument of convenience 
and elegance have been fashioned ; the winds might 
have w 7 oven soft fabrics upon every tree, and a table 
of abundance might have been spread in every wilder- 
ness and by every seashore. For the animal races it is 
spread. Why is it not for man ? Why is it especially 
ordained as the lot of man, that in the sweat of his 
brow he shall eat his bread ? Be ye sure that it hath 
a meaning. The curse, so much dreaded in the 
primeval of innocence and freedom of nature, falls not 
causeless on the earth. Labour is a more beneficent 
ministration than man's ignorance comprehends, or 
his complainings will admit. It is not mere blind 
drudgery, even when its end is hidden from him. It 
is all a training, it is all a discipline ; a development 



MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



129 



of energies, a nurse of virtues, a school of improve- 
ment. From the poor boy that gathers a few sticks 
for his mother's hearth, to the strong man who fells 
the forest oak, every human toiler, with every weary 
step and every urgent task, is obeying a wisdom far 
above his own wisdom, and is fulfillino* a design far 
beyond his own design — his own supply and support 
or another's wealth, luxury or splendour. 

But now let us turn to an opposite scene of life. I 
mean that of pleasure and dissipation. Is this all 
mere frivolity, a scene that suggests no meaning 
beyond its superficial aspects J Nay- my friends, what 
significance is there in unsatisfying pleasure ? "What 
a serious thing is the reckless gaiety of a bad man 1 
"What a picture, almost to move our awe, does vice 
present to us ? The desperate attempt to escape from 
the ennui of an unfurnished and unsatisfied mind ; 
the blind and headlong impulse of the soul, to quench 
its maddening thirst for happiness in the burning 
draughts of pleasure : the deep consciousness which 
soon arises of guilt and infamy : the sad adieu to 
honour and good fame ; the shedding of silent and 
bitter tears ; the flush of the heart's agony over the 
pale and haggard brow : the last determined and dread 
sacrifice of the soul and of heaven, to oiie demoniac 
passion; what serious things are these? What signa- 
tures upon the soul, to show its higher nature ? What 
a fearful hand-writing upon the walls that surround 
the deeds of darkness, duplicity and sensual crime ? 
The holy altar of religion hath no seriousness about 
it, deeper, or I had almost said, more awful than that 
which settles down upon the gaming table, or broods 
oftentimes over the haunts of corrupting indulgence. 
At that altar, indeed, is teaching ; words, words are 
uttered here : instruction, cold instruction, alas ! it 



130 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



may be, is delivered in consecrated walls ; but if the 
haunts of evil could be unveiled, if the covering could 
be taken off from guilty hearts, if every sharp pang 
and every lingering regret of the vitiated mind, could 
send forth its moanings and sighs into the great hear- 
ing of the world ; the world would stand aghast at 
that dread teaching. 

But besides the weariness of toil and the frivolity of 
pleasure, there is another state of life that is thought 
to teach nothing ; and that is ennui ; a state of leisure, 
attended with moody reveries. The hurry of pursuit 
is over, for the time ; the illusions of pleasure have 
vanished ; and the man sits down in the solitariness 
of meditation ; and " weary, flat, stale and unprofitable 
appear to him all the uses of this life." It seems to 
him, as I once heard it touchingly expressed even by 
a child, " as if every thing was nothing." This has 
been the occasional mood of many lofty minds, and 
has often been expressed in our literature. 

" Life's little stage, (says one) is a small eminence, 

Inch high above the grave ; that home of man, 

Where dwells the multitude ; we gaze around ; 

We read their monuments ; we sigh ; and while 

We sigh, we sink and are what we deplored ; 

Lamenting, or lamented all our lot ! " 

" To morrow," says our great dramatist, 

* c and to-morrow T , and to-morrow, 

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 

To the last syllable of recorded time ; 

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 

The way to dusty death. ****** 

Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player, 

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 

And then is heard no more ; it is a tale 

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 

Signifying nothing." 

But bound up with this poor, frail life, is the mighty 
thought that spurns the narrow span of all visible exist- 



MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 131 

ence. Out of this nothing, springs a something — a 
significant intimation, a dread revelation of the awful 
powers that lie wrapped up in human existence. 
Nothing more reveals the majestic import of life than 
this ennui, this heart-sinking sense of the vanity of all 
present acquisitions and attainments. " Man's misery," 
it has been well said, " comes of his greatness." The 
sphere of life appears small, the ordinary circle of its 
avocations, narrow and confined, the common routine 
of its cares insipid and unsatisfactory ; w T hy? Because 
he who walks therein demands a boundless range of 
objects. Why does the body seem to imprison the 
soul? Because the soul asks for freedom ; because it 
looks forth from the narrow and grated windows of 
sense upon the wide and immeasurable creation ; 
because it knows that around and beyond it, lie out- 
stretched the infinite and the everlasting paths. 

I have now considered some of those views of life 
which are brought forward as objections against our 
Christian theory of its greatness. My purpose in this 
discourse is not to penetrate into the wisdom of its 
deeper relations, but to confine myself to its humblest 
aspects, and to things that are known and acknowl- 
edged to be matters of fact. 

With this view, I proceed to observe in the last place, 
that every thing in this life bears traits that may well 
stir our minds to admiration and wonder. 

How mysterious is the connection of mind with mat- 
ter ; of the act of my will with the motion of my hand ; 
this wonderful telegraphic communication between the 
brain and every part of the body ! We talk of nerves ; 
but how knoweth the nerve in my finger, of the will 
that moves it ? We talk of the will : but what is it, 
and how does its commanding act originate ? It is all 
mystery. Within this folding veil of flesh, within 



132 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



these dark channels, every instant's action is a history 
of miracles. Every familiar step is more than a story 
in a land of enchantment. Were the marble statue 
before us, suddenly endowed with that self-moving 
power, it would not be intrinsically more wonderful 
than is the action of every being around us. 

The human face is itself a wonder. I do not mean 
in its beauty, nor in its power of expression ; but in its 
variety and its individuality. What is the problem 
that is here solved ? Suppose it were stated thus : 
given, a space nine inches long and six inches broad ; 
the form essentially the same, the features the same, 
the colours the same ; required, unnumbered hundreds 
of millions of countenances so entirely different, as, 
with some rare exceptions, to be completely and easily 
distinguishable. Would not the whole mechanical 
ingenuity of the world be thrown into utter despair of 
approaching any way towards such a result ? And 
yet it is completely achieved in the human counte- 
nance. Yes, the familiar faces that are around us, 
bear mysteries and marvels in every look. 

Again, the house thou dwellest in, that familiar 
abode, what holds it together, and secures it on its firm 
foundation ? Joint to joint, beam to beam, every post 
to its socket, is swathed and fastened by the mighty 
bands that hold ten thousand worlds in their orbits. 
This is no phantasm of the imagination ; it is the phi- 
losophical fact. All actual motion, and all seeming 
rest, are determined by unnumbered, most nicety bal- 
anced, and at the same time, immeasurable influences 
and attractions. Universal harmony springs from 
infinite complication. And therefore, every step thou 
takest in thy dwelling — still I only repeat what phil- 
osophers have proved — the momentum of every step, 
I say 3 contributes its part to the order of the universe. 



MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



133 



What then is a life, conscious of these stupendous 
relations, and what are its humblest dwellings ? If you 
lived in a palace that covered a hundred miles of territory, 
and if the stamping of your foot could convey an order to 
its farthest limits : you would feel that that, indeed, 
was power and grandeur. But you live in a system 
of things, you dwell in a palace, whose dome is spread 
out in the boundless skies : whose lights are hung in 
the wide arches of heaven : whose foundations are 
longer far than the earth and broader far than the sea : 
and you are connected by ties of thought, and even of 
matter, with its whole boundless extent. If your earth- 
ly dwelling, your house of life, were lifted up and borne 
visibly among the stars, guarded with power and 
clothed with light ; you would feel that that was a sub- 
lime fortune for any being to~emjoy. To ride in a royal 
chariot would be a small thing compared with that. 
But you are borne onward among the celestial spheres : 
rolling worlds are around you : bright, starry abodes 
fill all the coasts and skies of heaven : you are borne 
and kept by powers, silent and unperceived indeed, but 
real and boundless as the immeasurable universe. 

The infinite, we allow is mysterious : but not less 
so. in truth, is the finite and the small. It is said that 
man cannot comprehend infinity. It is true, and yet 
it is falsely said in one respect. The declaration that 
we cannot understand infinity, usually conveys the 
implication that we can comprehend that which is the 
opposite of infinity : that is. the little scene around us. 
But the humblest object beneath our eye. as completely 
defies our scrutiny, as the economy of the most dis- 
tant world. Every spire of grass, of which the scythe 
mows down millions in an hour, holds within it secrets, 
which no human penetration ever fathomed, Exam- 
ine it with the microscope, and you shall find a beau- 
12 



134 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



tiful organization ; channels for the vital juices to flow 
in ; some to nourish the stalk ; others to provide for 
the flower and prepare the seed ; other instruments 
still, to secrete the nutriment that flows up from the 
soil, and to deposite and incorporate it with the plant ; 
and altogether, a mechanism more curious than any, 
perhaps, ever formed by the ingenuity of man. And 
yet there are questions here, which the profoundest 
philosopher cannot answer. What is the principle of 
life, — without which, though the whole organization 
remains, the plant dies ? And what is that wonderful 
power of secretion ? No man can tell. There are in- 
scrutable mysteries, wrapped up in the foldings of that 
humble spire of grass. 

Sit down now, and take thy pen, and spread out thine 
account, as some writers have done, of the insignifi- 
cance of human life. But wilt thou pause a little and 
tell me first, how that pen was formed wherewith thou 
art writing, and that table whereon thy tablets are 
laid ? Thou canst tell neither. Wilt thou not pause 
then, when the very instruments thou art using, should 
startle thee into astonishment ? Lay thine hand 
where thou wilt, and thou layest it on the hiding bosom 
of mystery. Step where thou wilt, and thou dost 
tread upon a land of wonder. No fabled land of en- 
chantment ever was filled with such startling tokens. 
So fraught are all things with this moral significance, 
that nothing can refuse its behest. The furrows of 
the field, the clods of the valley, the dull beaten path, 
the insensible rock, are traced over and in every direc- 
tion, with this handwriting, more significant and sub- 
lime than all the beetling ruins and all the buried 
cities, that past generations have left upon the earth. 
It is the handwriting of the Almighty ! 

In fine, the history of the humblest human life is a 



MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



135 



tale of marvels. There is no dull or unmeaning thing 
in existence, did we but understand it ; there is not 
one of our employments, no, nor one of our states of 
mind, but is, could we interpret it, as significant — not 
as instructive, but as significant, as holy writ. Expe- 
rience, sensation, feeling, suffering, rejoicing ; what a 
world of meaning and of wonder lies in the modes and 
changes and strugglings and soarings of the life in 
which these are bound up. If it were but new, if we 
had been cast upon " this shore of being " without 
those intervening steps of childhood that have now 
made it familiar ground ; how had we been rapt in 
astonishment at every thing around, and every thing 
within us ! 

I have endeavoured in the present discourse — per- 
haps in vain— to touch this sense of wonder : to arouse 
attention to the startling and awful intimations, to 
the striking and monitory lessons and warnings of our 
present existence. And if some of the topics and sug- 
gestions of my discourse have been vague and' shado- 
wy, yet I am ready to say ; better to be startled by the 
shadows of truth, than to sleep beneath its noontide 
ray : better to be aroused by the visions of a dream, 
than to slumber on in profound unconsciousness of 
all the signs and wonders of our being. Oh ! that I 
could tear off this dreadful common-place of life, and 
show you what it is. There would be no want then, 
of entertainment or excitement ; no need of journeys 
or shows or tales to interest us ; the e very-day world- 
would be more than theatres or spectacles ; and life 
all-piercing, all-spiritual, would be more than the most 
vivid dream of romance ; how much more than the 
most eager pursuit of pleasure or profit ! 

My Brethren, there is a vision like that of Eliphaz, 
stealing upon us ; if we would mark it, through the 



136 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



vails of every evening's shadows, or coming in the 
morning with the mysterious revival of thought and 
consciousness ; there is a message whispering in the 
stirred leaves, or starting beneath the clods of the field, 
in the life that is everywhere bursting from its bosom. 
Every thing around us images a spiritual life ; all forms, 
modes, processes, changes, though we discern them 
not. Our great business with life is so to read the 
book of its teaching ; to find that life is not the doing 
of drudgeries, but the hearing of oracles ! The old 
mythology is but a leaf in that book, for it peopled the 
world with spiritual natures. Many-leaved science 
still spreads before us the same tale of wonder. Spir- 
itual meditation, interpreting experience, and above all, 
the life of Jesus, will lead us still farther into the heart 
and soul and the innermost life of all things. It is 
but a child's life, to pause and rest upon outward things, 
though we call them wealth and splendour. It is to 
feed ourselves with husks, instead of sustaining food. 
It is to grasp the semblance, and to lose the secret and 
soul of existence. It is as if a pupil should gaze all 
day upon the covers of his book, and open it not, and 
learn nothing. It is indeed that awful alternative 
which is put by Jesus himself; to gain the world — 
though it be the whole world — and to lose our own 
soul. 



IX. 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 

WHAT IS MAN THAT THOU SHOULDST MAGNIFY HIM, AND SET THINE HEART 
UPON HIM; AND THAT THOU SHOULDST VISIT HIM EVERY MORNING, AND TRY 
HIM EVERY MOMENT? — Job vii. 17 — 18. 

That we are " tried every moment," — is the clause 
of the text, to which I wish in this discourse, to direct 
your meditation. By which, in the sense of the pas- 
sage before us, is not meant that we are continually 
afflicted, but that we are constantly proved and put to 
the test ; that every thing which befalls us, in the 
course of life and of every day, bears upon us, in the 
character of a spiritual discipline, a trial of our temper 
and disposition ; that every thing developes in us feel- 
ings that are either right or wrong. I have spoken in 
my last discourse of the moral significance of life. I 
propose to speak in this, of the possible moral use and 
of the inevitable moral effect of every thing in life. 
My theme, in short, is this ; that every thing in life is 
moral, or spiritual. 

There is no conviction which is at once more rare, 
and more needful for our improvement, than this. If 
the language of Job's discontent and despair in the 
chapter from which our text is taken, is not familiar 
to many, yet to very many, life appears at least mechan- 
ical and dull. It is not such, in fact, but it appears 
such. It appears to be mere labour, mere business, 
mere activity. Or it is mere pain or pleasure, mere 
gain or loss, mere success or disappointment. These 

10# 



138 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



things, if not mechanical, have at least, to many minds, 
nothing spiritual in them. And not a few pass through 
the most important transactions, through the most mo- 
mentous eras of their lives, and never think of them 
in their highest and most interesting character. The 
pervading morality, the grand spiritual import of this 
earthly scene, seldom strikes their minds, or touches 
their hearts. And if they think of ever becoming re- 
ligious, they expect to be so only through retirement 
from this scene, or, at least, through teachings and in- 
fluences and processes far removed from the course of 
their daily lives. 

But now I say, in contradiction to this, that every 
thing in life, is spiritual. What is man, says Job, that 
thou visitest him every morning ? This question, pre- 
sents us, at the opening of every day, with that view 
of life, which I propose to illustrate. That conscious 
existence which, in the morning, you recover from the 
embraces of sleep ; what a testimony is it to the power 
and beneficence of God? What a teacher is it, of all 
devout and reverent thoughts? You laid yourself 
down and slept. You lay, unconscious, helpless, dead 
to all the purposes of life, and unable by any power 
of your own ever to awake. From that sleep, from 
that unconsciousness, from that image of death, God 
has called you to a new life ; he has restored to you 
the gift of existence. And now what meets you on 
this threshold of renewed life ? Not bright sunbeams 
alone, but God's mercies visit you in every beaming 
ray and every beaming thought, and call for gratitude ; 
and you can neither acknowledge nor resist the call 
without a moral result. That result may come upon 
you, sooner than you expect. If you rise from your 
bed, with a mind undevout, ungrateful, self-indulgent, 
selfish — something in your very preparations for the 



EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 139 



day, something that may happen in a matter slight as 
that of the toilet, may disturb your serenity and cloud 
your day at the beginning. You may have thought, 
that it was only ike prayer of the morning that had 
any religion, any thing spiritual in it. But I say that 
there is not an article in your wardrobe, there is not 
an instrument of daily convenience to you, however 
minute or otherwise indifferent, but it has a power so 
far moral, that a lit tie disarray or disorder in it, may 
produce in you a temper of mind, ay, a moral state, of 
the most serious character. You may not be conscious 
of this : that is, you may not be distinctly sensible of 
it, and yet it may be none the less true. We are told 
that the earth, and every substance around us, is full 
of the electric fluid : but we do not constantly perceive 
it. A little friction, however, developes it, and it sends 
out a hasty spark. And so in the moral world — a 
slight chafing, a single turn of some wheel in the social 
machinery — and there comes, like the electric spark, 
a flashing glance of the eye. a hasty word, perhaps a 
muttered oath — that sounds ominous and awful as the 
tone of distant thunder ! What is it that the little ma- 
chinery of the electrical operator develops ? It is the 
same power, that gathering its tremendous forces, rolls 
through the firmament, and rends the mountains in its 
might. And just as true is it, that the little round of 
our daily cares and occupations, the humble mechan- 
ism of daily life, bears witness to that moral power, 
which, only extended, exalted, enthroned above, is the 
dread and awful Majesty of the heavens. 

But let us return to our proposition. Every thing 
is moral, and therefore, as we have said, great and ma- 
jestic ; but let us for a few moments confine ourselves 
to the simple consideration, that every thing in its bear- 
ings and influences is moral. 



HO 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



All times and seasons are moral ; the serene and 
bright morning, we have said ; that wakening of all 
nature to life ; that silence of the early dawn, as it were 
the silence of expectation ! that freshening glow, that 
new inspiration of life, as if it came from the breath of 
heaven ; but the holy eventide also, its cooling breeze, 
its falling shade, its hushed and sober hour ; the sultry 
noontide, too, and the solemn midnight ; and spring- 
time and chastening autumn ; and summer that unbars 
our gates and carries us forth amidst the ever-renewed 
wonders of the world ; and winter that gathers us 
around the evening hearth : all these as they pass, 
touch by turns the springs of the spiritual life in us, and 
are conducting that life to good or evil. The very pass- 
ing of time, without any reference now to its seasons, 
developes in us much that is moral. For what is the 
passing of time, swifter or slower ; what are its linger- 
ing and its hasting, but indications, but expressions often, 
of the state of our own minds ; it hastes often, because 
we are wisely and well employed ; it lingers, it hangs 
heavily upon us, because our minds are unfurnished, 
unenlightened, unoccupied with good thoughts, with 
the fruitful themes of virtue : or because we have lost 
almost all virtue in unreasonable and outrageous im- 
patience. Yes, the idle watch-hand often points to 
something within us ; the very dial-shadow falls upon 
the conscience ! 

The course of time on earth is marked by changes 
of heat and cold, storm and sunshine ; all this too is 
moral. The weather, dull theme of comment as it is 
often found, is to be regarded with no indifference as a 
moral cause. For, does it not produce unreasonable 
anxieties, or absolutely sinful complainings? Have 
none who hear me ever had reason to be shocked to 
find themselves angry with the elements ; vexed with 



EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



141 



chafing heat, or piercing cold, or the buffeting storm ; 
and ready when encountering nature's resistance, 
almost to return buffet for buffet ? 

But let us turn from the course of inanimate nature 
to matters in which our own agency is more distinct 
and visible. 

Go with me to any farm-house in the land, and let 
us see what is passing there, and what is the lofty and 
spiritual import of its humble history. It is the theatre 
of strenuous toils and beseting cares. Within doors is 
work to be done ; that work which is proverbially 
"'never done :'' and without, the soil is to be tilled, the 
weeds and brambles are to be rooted up, fences are to 
be builded — of wood or stone — and to be kept in repair ; 
and all this is to be done with tools and instruments 
that are not perfect, but must be continually mended ; 
the axe and the scythe grow dull with use; the plough 
and the harrow are sometimes broken ; the animals 
which man brings in to assist his labours, have no 
instincts to make them do the very thing he wishes ; 
they must be trained to the yoke and the collar ; with 
much pains and some danger. 

Now the evil in all this, is not the task that is to be 
performed, but the grand mistake that is made about 
the spiritual purpose and character of that task. Most 
men look upon such a state of life as mere labour, if 
not vexation : and many regard it as a state of inferi- 
ority and almost of degradation. They must work : in 
order to obtain sustenance, and that's all they know 
about this great dispensation of labour. But why did 
not the Almighty cast man's lot beneath the quiet 
shades and amid embosoming* srroves and hills, with 
no such task to perform ; with nothing to do but 
to rise up and eat, and to lie down and rest ? Why 
did he ordain that work should be done, in all the 



142 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



dwellings of life, and upon every productive field, and 
in every busy city and on every ocean wave ? Because, 
to go back to the original reason — it pleased God to 
give man a nature destined to higher ends than indo- 
lent repose and irresponsible indulgence. And because, 
in the next place, for developing the energies of such 
a nature, work was the proper element. I am but 
repeating perhaps, what I have said before to you, but 
I feel that in taking this position, I am standing upon 
one of the m-eat moral landmarks which ought to sru ide 
the course of all mankind ; but on which, seen through 
a mist or not seen at all, the moral fortunes of millions 
are fatally wrecked. Could the toiling world but see 
that the scene of their daily life is all spiritual, that 
the very implements of their toil, or the fabrics they 
weave, or the merchandize they barter, were all design- 
ed for spiritual ends ; what a sphere for the noblest 
improvement might their daily lot then be ? What 
a revolution might this single truth produce in the con- 
dition and character of the whole world ? But now, 
for a man to gird himself for spiritual improvement ; 
what is it ? Why, with most men, it is to cast off the 
soiled and dusty garments of toil, the slough of mere 
worldly drudgery as they are called ; and to put on 
the Sunday suit and go to church, or to sit down and 
read a book. Good employments are these, but one 
special design of them is, to prepare the mind for 
the action of life. We are to hear and read, we are to 
meditate and pray, partly at least, for this end — that 
we may act well. The action of life is the great field 
for spiritual improvement. There is not one task of 
industry or business, whether in field or forest, on the 
wharf or the exchange, but it has spiritual ends. 
There is not one of the cares or crosses of our daily 
labour, but it was especially ordained, to nurture in 



EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 143 



us patience, calmness, gentleness, disinterestedness, 
magnanimity. Nor is there one tool or implement of 
toil, but it is a part of the great spiritual instru- 
mentality. 

Every thing in life, then, I repeat, is essentially 
spiritual. Every relation in life is so. The relations 
of parent, child, brother, sister, friend, associate, hus- 
band, wife, are throughout every living tie and 
thrilling nerve that binds them together, moral. They 
cannot subsist a day nor an hour, without putting the 
mind to a trial of its truth, fidelity, forbearance, disin- 
terestedness. 

But let us take the case of the parent ; of the young 
mother, for instance. She may have passed her youth 
in much thoughtlessness ; in a round of fashionable 
engagements that have left her little time to think, 
even when approaching the most solemn relationships 
of life ; and she may have become a wife and mother, 
before she has settled, or even meditated, any reason- 
able plan or principle of life and of duty. Now, I am 
not about to say that the new charge committed to 
her hands, brings with it many obvious duties and 
strong obligations ; but I desire you to observe how, 
what is moral in the case, is thrust upon her ; as if a 
hand were suddenly stretched forth into her path, with 
movement and gesture that bade her pause and con- 
sider. For what is in that path ? It is a being, though 
but a little child, in whom is suddenly revealed that 
awful attribute, the indomitable will. That will, per- 
haps, utters itself in a scream of passion ; it stamps 
upon the ground in a fury of anger ; it vents itself in 
tears ; or flashes in lightning from the eye. Yes, the 
being that a few days before was an unconscious 
and helpless infant in her arms, has all at once put on 
the terrific attribute of will ; and its astonished guardian 



144 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



stands aghast, as if an uncaged lion had broken upon 
her path. What, then, is in that path ? I answer, it 
is what nothing but moral firmness can fairly meet, 
and nothing but the gentleness and patience of piety 
and prayer can ever successfully and wisely manage, 
control and subdue ! And I say again, that if moral 
action, if religious consideration was never before 
awakened, that very epoch, that very hour, might 
reasonably be the commencement with her, of a com- 
plete and spiritual regeneration ! For nothing less 
than actual regeneration from a thoughtless, self-indul- 
gent life, ever did, or ever can, prepare any one 
thoroughly and faithfully to discharge the duties of a 
parent. 

Again, every thing in the conditio?! of life is moral ; 
wealth, the means of lavish expense, or the argument 
for avaricious hoarding ; poverty, the task-master that 
exacts labour, or inflicts self-denial ; mediocrity of 
means, the necessity, the vexatious necessity, as some 
will consider it, of attending to the little items of expense, 
or the mortifying inferiority to others, in the splendour 
of equipages and establishments ; trade, the splendid 
success, the fortunate speculation, the disappointed 
hope, the satisfactory endorsement, the dishonoured 
note, the sharp bargain — all moral ; the professions 
and callings of life, some making their incumbents 
unreasonably proud, others making their equally useful 
agents, unreasonably humble. When we look upon 
things in this light, how moral is every thing around 
us ! This great city is one extended scene of moral 
action. There is not a blow struck in it, but has a 
purpose, and a purpose ultimately good or bad, and 
therefore moral. There is not an action performed 
but it has a motive ; and motives are the very sphere 
of morality. These equipages in our streets 3 these 



EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 145 



houses and their furniture ; what symbols are they of 
what is moral, and how are they, in a thousand ways, 
ministering to right or wrong feeling ? You may have 
thought that you were to receive the teachings of mo- 
rality and religion only by resorting to church : but take 
your seat in your well-furnished, perhaps, splendid 
apartment, and there is not an object around you but 
may minister to the good or bad state of your mind. 
It is a little empire of which your mind is the creator. 
From many a trade and occupation and art in life, you 
have gathered contributions to its comfort or splendour. 
The forest, the field, the ore-bed, the ocean ; all ele- 
ments, fire, water, earth, air, have yielded their supplies 
to form this dwelling-place, this palace of your thoughts. 
Furniture, whose materials came from beyond the sea ; 
polished marbles wrought from the quarries of Italy ; 
carpets from the looms of England ; the luxurious 
couch, and the shaded evening lamp ; of what are all 
these the symbols ? What emotions do they awaken 
in you ? Be they emotions of pride, or be they emo- 
tions of gratitude ; be they thoughts of self-indulgence 
only, or thoughts, merciful thoughts, of the thousands 
who are destitute of all the comforts of life ; what a 
moral complexion do they bear ? 

Nay, and this spiritual dispensation of life may press 
down upon a man in a way he little thinks of. For 
how possible is it, that amidst boundless wealth, in its 
most gorgeous mansion, and surrounded by every 
thing that can minister to pleasure, a family may be 
more miserable than the poorest family in the land ! — 
the children, spoiled by indulgence, made vain and 
proud by their over-estimated advantages, made 
peevish, impatient and imbecile, by perpetual depen- 
dence on others, and not half so happy even, as 
thousands of children who are half clad and unshod, 
13 



146 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



and who never knew what it was to give a command ; 
their elders, injured or ruined in constitution by luxu- 
ries, enfeebled and dulled in mind by the hard tasks 
that are imposed on the functions of the body, and yet 
absurdly puffed up with pride that they can live splen- 
didly and fare sumptuously every day ; how possible 
is it, I repeat, that coarse fare and a pallet of straw, 
may turn out to be better than the bed of down, and 
the loaded table, and the cellar of choice wines ! Ay, 
the loaded table, what a long moral account, accumu- 
lating day by day, through years, may have been 
written upon that table ; and payment, perchance, 
must be made on the couch of agony ! 

Again, society is, throughout, a moral scene. I 
cannot enlarge upon this point as it would be easy to 
do, but must content myself with one or two observa- 
tions. Conversation, for instance, is full of inward trials 
and exigencies. It is impossible that imperfect minds 
should commune together without a constant trial of 
their tempers and virtues. Though of the most 
friendly and kindred spirit, they will have different 
opinions, or varying moods ; one will be quicker or 
slower of apprehension than the other on some point ; 
one will think the other wrong, and the other will feel 
as if it were unkindly or uncharitably construed ; and 
there will be dispute, and pertinacity, and implication, 
and retort, and defence, and complaint ; and well, if 
there are not sarcasm and anger. And well, if these 
harsh sounds do not invade the sanctuary of home ! 
Well, if they do not bring disturbance to the social 
board, and discord amidst the voices of music and 
song ! 

Is not every thing, then, in social life, moral ? — ■ 
really a matter of religion, a trial of conscience ? You 
enter your dwelling, The first thing that you see, 



EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 147 



and it may be a very slight thing, may call upon you 
for an act of self-command. The thing may not be 
as it should be ; but that is not the most material con- 
sideration ; that is not what most concerns you. The 
material consideration is, that your mind may be put 
out of its proper place, that you may not be as you 
should be. You go from your door. The sight of the 
first man you behold, may call for a trial of all your 
virtues. You enter into the throng of society. Every 
turn of your eye, may present an occasion for the 
exercise of your self-respect, your calmness, your 
modesty, your candour, your forgetfulness of self, your 
love of others. You visit the sick, or necessitous. 
Every step may be one of ostentation, or at least of 
self-applause : or it may be one of true generosity and 
goodness. You stand amidst the throng of men ; and 
your position has many relations ; you are higher or 
lower than others, or you are an equal and a compe- 
titor; and none of these relations can be wisely 
sustained without the aid of strong religious consider- 
ations. Or, your position is fixed and unalterable. You 
are a parent ; and you give a command or make a 
request. A tho Light ful observer will perceive the very 
tone of it to be moral : and a friend may know that it 
has cost twenty years of self-discipline to form that 
gentle tone ! Or you are a child ; and you obey or 
disobey ; and let me tell you that the act, nay, the very 
manner of your act, is so vitally good or bad, that 
it may send a thrill of gladness, or a pang, sharp as a 
sword, to the heart of your parent. Or you are a 
pupil ; and can any act or look be indifferent, which 
by its levity, or negligence, or ill-humour, adds to the 
already trying task of those who spend anxious days 
and nights for you ? 

But I must leave those specifications, which I find 



148 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



indeed cannot well be earned into the requisite detail 
in the pulpit; but I must leave them also for the sake 
of presenting in close, one or two general reflections 
on the whole subject. 

I observe then, that the consideration of every thing 
in our life as moral, as spiritual, would impart an 
unequalled interest and dignity to life. 

First, an unequalled interest. 

It is often said that the poet or the man of genius, is 
alive to a world around him, to aspects of nature and 
life, which others do not perceive. This is not strictly 
true; for when he describes his impressions he finds 
a responsive feeling in the breasts of his readers. The 
truth is, and herein lies much of his power and great- 
ness 7 that he is vividly and distinctly conscious of 
those things which other men feel indeed, but feel so 
vaguely, that they are scarcely aware, till told of them. 
So it is in spiritual things. A world of spiritual objects 
and influences, and relations, lies around us all. We 
all vaguely deem it to be so ; but what a charmed 
life ; how like to that of genius or poetic inspiration, is 
his, who communes with the spiritual scene around 
him ; who hears the voice of the spirit in every sound ; 
who sees its signs in every passing form of things, 
and feels its impulse, in all action, passion, being ! 

" The kingdom of heaven, " says our Saviour, " is 
like a treasure hid in a field. " There is a treasure 
in the field of life, richer than all its visible wealth ; 
which whoso finds, shall be happier than if he had 
discovered a mine of gold. It is related that the mine 
of Potosi was unveiled, simply by tearing a bush from 
the mountain side. Thus near to us lie the mines of 
wisdom ; thus unsuspected they lie all around us. 
'The word," saith Moses, speaking of this very 
wisdom, "is very nigh thee." There is a secret in 



EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 149 



the simplest things, a wonder in the plainest, a charm 
in the dullest. The veil that hides all this requires 
but a hand stretched out to draw it aside. 

We are all naturally seekers of wonders ; we travel 
far to see sights, to look upon the mountain height or 
the rush of waters, to gaze upon galleries of art or the 
majesty of old ruins ; and yet a greater than all these 
is here. The world-wonder is all around us ; the 
wonder of setting suns and evening stars; the wonder 
of the magic spring time, of tufted bank and blossom- 
ing tree ; the wonder of the Infinite Divinity, and of 
his boundless revelation. As I stood yesterday and 
looked upon a tree, I observed little jets as of smoke, 
darting from one and another of its bursting buds. Oh ! 
that the secrets of nature might thus burst forth before 
us ; that the secret wisdom of the world might thus be 
revealed to us ! Is there any splendour to be found in 
distant travels, beyond that which sets its morning 
throne in the golden East; any dome sublimer than 
that of heaven ; any beauty fairer than that of the 
verdant and blossoming earth ; any place, though 
invested with all the sanctities of old time, like that 
home which is hushed and folded within the embrace 
of the humblest wall and roof? And yet all these — 
this is the point at which I aim — all these are but the 
symbols of things far greater and higher. All this is 
but the spirit's clothing. In this vesture of time is 
wrapped the immortal nature; m this brave show of 
circumstance and form, stands revealed the stupendous 
reality. Break forth, earth-bound spirit ! and be that 
thou art, a living soul: communing with thyself, com- 
muning with God ; and thou shalt find thy vision, 
eternity; thine abode, infinity; thy home, in the bosom 
of all-embracing love ! 
13* 



150 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



st So build we up the being that we are ; 
Thus deeply drinking in the soul of things, 
We shall be wise perforce. 

Whate'er we see, 
Whate'er we feel, by agency direct 
Or indirect, shall tend to feed and nurse 
Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats 
Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights 
Of love divine, our intellectual soul." 

And thus, in the next place, shall we find that all 
the real dignity and importance that belong to human 
life, belong to every human life ; i. e. to life in every 
condition. It is the right mind, the right apprehension 
of things only that is wanting, to make the peasant's 
cottage as interesting, as intrinsically glorious, as the 
prince's palace. I wish that this view of life might be 
taken by us ; not only because it is the right view, but 
because it would tend effectually to promote human 
happiness, and especially contentment. Most men look 
upon their employments and abodes as common-place 
and almost as mean. The familiar objects around 
them, appear to them almost as vulgar. They feel as 
if there could be no dignity nor charm in acting and 
living as they are compelled to do. The plastered 
wall, and the plain deal boards, the humble table, 
spread with earthen, or wooden dishes ; how poor does 
it all seem to them ! Oh ! could they live in palaces 
of marble, clothed with silken tapestries, and filled with 
gorgeous furniture, and canopies of state — it were some- 
thing. But now, to the spiritual vision, what is it all ? 
The great problem of humanity is wrought out in the 
humblest abodes ; no more than this is done in the 
highest. A human heart throbs beneath the beggar's 
gabardine ; it is no more than this, that stirs with its 
beating, the prince's mantle. What is it, I say, that 
makes life to be life indeed — makes all its grandeur 



EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 151 



and power ? The beauty of love, the charm of friend- 
ship, the sacredness of sorrow, the heroism of patience, 
the soul-exalting prayer, the noble self-sacrifice ; these 
are the priceless treasures and glories of humanity ; and 
are these things of condition ? On the contrary, are 
not all places, all scenes, alike clothed with the grandeur 
and charm of virtues like these ? And compared with 
these, what are the gildings, the gauds and shows of 
wealth and splendour ? Nay, compared with every 
man's abode — his sky-dome and earth-dwelling — what 
can any man's abode be ? Thou livest in a world of 
beauty and grandeur. Who liveth in a fairer, a more 
magnificent world than thou ? It is a dwelling which 
God hath made for thee ; does that consideration 
deprive it of all its goodliness ? And suppose thou wast 
rich, and wast surrounded with all the gayety and 
grandeur of wealth : how might they hide from thee, 
alas ! all the spiritual meanings of thy condition ! 
How might the stately wall and the rich ceiling hide 
heaven from thy sight ! Let thine eye be opened to 
the vision of life ; and what state then, what mere 
visible grandeur, can be compared to thine ? It is all 
but a child's bauble, to the divine uses of things, the 
glorious associations, the beatific visions that are opened 
to thee ! God hath thus "magnified," and to use the 
strong and figurative language of our text, " set his 
heart " upon the humblest fortunes of humanity. 

There are those who, with a kind of noble but 
mistaken aspiration, are asking for a life which shall 
in its form and outward course, be more spiritual and 
divine than that which they are obliged to live. They 
think that if they could devote themselves entirely to 
what are called labours of philanthropy, to visiting the 
poor and sick, that would be well and worthy ; and so 
it would be. They think that if it could be inscribed 



152 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



on their tomb-stone, that they had visited a million of 
couches of disease, and carried balm and soothing to 
them, that would be a glorious record ; and so it would 
be. But let me tell you, that the million occasions 
will come, ay, and in the ordinary paths of life, in your 
homes and by your fire-sides — wherein you may act 
as nobly, as if all your life long, you visited beds of 
sickness and pain. Yes, I say, the million occasions 
will come, varying every hour, in which you may re- 
strain your passions, subdue your hearts to gentleness 
and patience, resign your own interest for another's 
advantage, speak words of kindness and wisdom, 
raise the fallen and cheer the fainting and sick in spirit, 
and soften and assuage the weariness and bitterness of 
the mortal lot. These cannot indeed be written on your 
tombs, for they are not one series of specific actions, like 
those of what is technically denominated philanthropy. 
But in them, I say, you may discharge offices, not less 
gracious to others, nor less glorious for yourselves than 
the self-denials of the far-famed sisters of charity, than 
the labours of Howard or Oberlin, or than the suffer- 
ings of the martyred host of God's elect. They shall 
not be written on your tombs ; but they are written deep 
in the hearts of men — of friends, of children, of kindred 
all around you : they are written in the book of the 
great account ! 

How divine a life would this be ! For want of this 
spiritual insight, the earth is desolate, and the heavens 
are but a sparkling vault or celestial mechanism. 
Nothing but this spirit of God in us, can " create that 
new heavens and new earth, wherein dwelleth righte- 
ousness." For want of this, life is to many, dull and 
barren, or trifling, uninteresting, unsatisfactory — with- 
out sentiment, without poetry and philosophy alike, 
without interpretation or meaning or lofty motive. 



EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



153 



Whirled about by incessant change, making an oracle 
of circumstance and an end of vanity, such persons 
know not why they live. For want of this spiritual 
insight, man degrades himself to the worship of condi- 
tion, and loses the sense of what he is. He passes by 
a grand house, or a blazoned equipage, and bows his 
whole lofty being before them — forgetting that he him- 
self is greater than a house, greater than an equipage, 
greater than the world. Oh ! to think, that this walk- 
ing majesty of earth should so forget itself ; that this 
spiritual power in man should be frittered aw^ay, and 
dissipated upon trifles and vanities ; how lamentable 
is it ! There is no Gospel for such a being ; for the 
Gospel lays its foundations in the spiritual nature. 
There is nothing for man, but what lies in his spirit, 
in spiritual insight, in spiritual interpretation. Without 
this, not only is heaven nothing, but the world is 
nothing. The great Apostle has resolved it all in few 
words : " There is no condemnation to them who are 
in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after 
the spirit ; but to all others there is condemnation, — 
sorrow, pain, vanity, death. For to be carnally minded 
is death ; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace." 



X. 



LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT FOR FAITH 
AND VIRTUE. 

BUT HE ANSWERED AND SAID, IT IS WRITTEN THAT MAN SHALL NOT LIVE BY 
BREAD ALONEj BUT BY EVERY WORD THAT PROCEEDETH OUT OF THE MOUTH 

of god. — Matthew iv. 4 

The necessity to man of something above all the 
resources of physical life, is the subject to which, in 
this discourse, I shall invite your attention. 

In two previous discourses on human life which I 
have addressed to you, I have endeavoured to show, in 
the first place and in general, that this life possesses a 
deep moral significance, notwithstanding all that is 
said of it, as a series of toils, trifles and vanities; and in 
the next place, and in pursuance of the same thought, 
that every thing in life is positively moral ; not merely 
that it is morally significant, but that it has a positive 
moral efficiency for good or for evil. And now I say 
in the third place, that the argument for the moral 
purpose is clenched by the necessity of that purpose, 
to the well being of life itself. " Man, " says our 
Saviour, with solemn authority, " shall not live by 
bread alone, but " — by what ? how few seem to believe 
in it ! — " by every word that proceedeth out of the 
mouth of God. 5 ' 

How few seem to believe in it; how few do believe 
this, in the highest sense ; and yet how true is it ! 
Into how large a part even of the most ordinary life, 



ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 155 



enters a certain kind and degree of spirituality ! You 
cannot do business, without some faith in man ; that 
is, in the spiritual part of man. You cannot dig in 
the earth, without a reliance on the unseen result. 
You cannot step or think or reason, without confiding 
in the inward, the spiritual principles of your nature. 
All the affections and bonds, and hopes and interests 
of life, centre in the spiritual. Break that central 
bond, and you know that the world would rush to 
chaos. 

But something higher than this indirect recognition 
is demanded in our argument. Let us proceed to 
take it up in form. 

There are tw r o principles then, involved in the moral 
aim and embracing its whole scope, whose necessity I 
propose now to consider. They are faith and virtue ; 
the convictions, that is to say, on which virtue reposes, 
and the virtue itself. Something above a man's phy- 
sical life must there be to help it — something above it 
in its faith — something beyond it, in its attainment. 

In speaking of faith as necessary to human life, I 
need not here undertake to define its nature ! This 
will sufficiently appear as w r e proceed. What I wish 
to speak of, is, in general, a faith in religion ; in God, 
in spiritual truth and hopes. What I maintain in 
general, is the indispensableness to human life, of this 
religious faith. My present purpose is, to offer some 
distinct and independent considerations in support of 
this faith : and these considerations I find based, im- 
bedded, deep-founded in human life. To illustrate the 
general character of the view which I wish to present, 
let us make a comparison. Let it be admitted then, 
and believed, on the one hand, that there is a God ; let 
the teachings of Jesus, also, be received : that this 
God is our father ; that he has a paternal interest in 



156 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



our welfare and improvement ; that he has provided 
the way and the means of our salvation from sin and 
ruin ; that he hears our prayers and will help our 
endeavours ; that he has destined us, if faithful, to 
a future and blessed and endless life ; and then, how 
evident is it that upon this system of faith, we can live 
calmly, endure patiently, labour resolutely, deny our- 
selves cheerfully, hope steadfastly, and " be conquer- 
ors," in the great struggle of life, " yea, and more than 
conquerors, through Christ who has loved us ! " But 
take away any one of these principles ; and where are 
we ? Say that there is no God, or that there is no 
way opened for hope and prayer, and pardon and 
triumph, or that there is no heaven to come, no rest 
for the weary, no blessed land for the sojourner and 
the pilgrim : and where are we? And what are we ? 
What are we, indeed, but the sport of chance, and the 
victims of despair ? What are we, but hapless wan- 
derers upon the face of the desolate and forsaken earth ; 
surrounded by darkness, struggling with obstacles, 
distracted with doubts, misled by false lights ; not 
merely wanderers who have lost their way, but wan- 
derers, alas ! who have no way, no prospect, no home ? 
What are we but doomed, deserted voyagers upon the 
dark and stormy sea, thrown amidst the baffling waves 
without a compass, without a course, with no blessed 
haven in the distance to invite us to its welcome rest ? 

What now is the conclusion from this comparison ? 
It is, that religious faith is indispensable to the attain- 
ment of the great ends of life. But that which is 
necessary to life, must have been designed to be a part 
of it. When you study the structure of an animal, 
when you examine its parts, you say, " This was de- 
signed for food ; there must be food for this being, 
somewhere ; neither growth nor life is possible without 



ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 157 

it. n And when yon examine the structure of a 
human mind and understand its powers and wants, 
you say with equal confidence, " This being was made 
for faith ; there must be something, somewhere, for 
him to believe in ; he cannot healthfully grow, he con- 
not happily live without it." 

The argument which I now urge for faith, let me 
distinctly say, is not that which is suggested by world- 
ly prudence ; that religion is a good thing for the State, 
useful to society, necessary for the security of property ; 
and therefore to be received and supported. The con- 
cession that the great interests of the world cannot be 
sustained without religion, and therefore that religion 
is necessary, is considered by many, I fear, as yielding 
not to reasoning fairly, but to policy. This was the 
view of religion, doubtless, which pervaded the ancient 
systems of polytheism. It was a powerful state 
engine ; a useful social economy ; and hence, with 
multitudes, it was little more than a splendid ritual. 
It was not a personal thing. It was not received as 
true, but only as expedient. Now that which I main- 
tain is this ; not that religion is necessary, and there- 
fore respectable ; not that religion is necessary, and 
therefore to be supported in order that the people may 
be restrained and managed, and held in check ; but my 
argument is, that religion is necessary, and therefore 
true. The indispensableness of religion, I hold, is not 
merely a reason for its being supported, but a reason 
for its being believed in. 

The point maintained, let me now more distinctly 
observe, is this : that in every kind of existence, in 
every system of things, there are certain primary 
elements or powers, which are essential to its just order 
and true well-being ; and that under a wise Provi- 
dence, these elements must be regarded as bearing the 
14 



158 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



stamp of divine appointment and authority. Find 
that which is necessary to any being or thing, and 
you find that which was designed to be a part of that 
being or thing. Find that which, in the long run, 
injures, hurts or hinders ; find that which is fatal to 
the growth, progress or perfection of any being or 
thing, and you find that which does not properly belong 
to it. He who would cultivate a tree, knows that a 
soil, and a certain internal structure, are necessary to 
that end. And if he should, with that end in view, 
set himself to deprive it of those essential elements of 
growth, his act would be one of perfect fatuity. 

Let us dwell upon this point and the illustration of 
it, a little longer. 

In the human body, we say, food is necessary. 
Stint it, and the body languishes ; cut off the supply, 
and it ceases to exist. So in the human body, the cir- 
culation of the blood is necessary. Interrupt it, and 
the body is diseased ; stop it, and the body dies. How 
truly has our Saviour denominated his doctrine, the 
very food and life-blood of the soul ! "Verily, verily, I 
say unto you, except ye eat the flesh and drink the 
blood of the Son of Man, ye have no life in you ; 
whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood hath 
eternal life ; " meaning, according to a figurative and 
well-known use of language at that time, his spirit and 
doctrine. And how manifestly true is it ! Cut off 
from any soul all the principles that Jesus taught, the 
faith in a God, in immortality, in virtue, in essentia] 
t ectitude ; and how T inevitably will it sink into sin, 
misery, darkness and ruin ! Nay, cut off all sense of 
these truths, and the man sinks at once to the grade 
of the animal. 

Again, in the system of the universe, there is one 
principle that is essential to its order; the principle of 



ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 159 



gravitation. Sever this bond that holds all worlds and 
systems together, and they would instantly fly into 
wild and boundless chaos. But society, in its great 
relations, is as much the creation of heaven, as the 
system of the universe. Sever, then, all the moral 
bonds that hold it together ; cut off from it every con- 
viction of truth and integrity, of an authority above it, 
and of a conscience within it; and society would 
immediately rush to disorder, anarchy and ruin. If, 
then, to hold society together and to bind it in happy 
order, religion be as necessary as gravitation is to hold 
together the frame of nature, it follows that religion 
is as really a principle of things as gravitation ; it is 
as certain and true. 

Once more : animal life has its law, instinct. And 
when we look at the races of animals, and see how 
indispensable this law is to their welfare ; when we see 
that without this principle, they would inevitably fall 
into misery and destruction, we have no doubt that 
instinct is a heaven-ordained law. Equally necessary 
to man, is some law. What is it ? He has appetites, 
propensities, passions, like the animal ; but he has 
no instincts to control them and keep them safe. What 
law then must he have ? Will it be said that pru- 
dence, the love of himself, the love of happiness, is 
sufficient to guide him? Tb at will depend upon his 
idea of happiness. If it is purely sensual, then he is 
left to the impulses of sense ; and that too without the 
guardianship of instinct, and with all the additional 
peril, in which the infinite cravings of his soul put him, 
and against which, indeed, no barrier of instinct or pru- 
dence could ever defend him. But if his idea of hap- 
piness includes a spiritual good, that implies a faith in 
the spiritual ; and this is the very faith for which I 
contend. And I contend, too, that this faith, faith in 



160 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



moral principles, faith in virtue and in God, is as ne- 
cessary for the guidance of a man, as instinct is for the 
guidance of an animal. This, I believe, will not be 
denied. I believe that every man must be conscious 
that to be given up to his sensual impulses, without 
any faith in virtue or in God, would be as certain ruin 
to him, as it would be to an animal to be sent into the 
world without the control of instinct. And if it be so, 
then has the one principle, a place as truly appointed, 
a mission as truly authentic in God's providence, as 
the other. 

But further ; man and animal too, need more than 
safety. They need some positive good, something 
that satisfies. The animal has it, in the pleasures of 
sensation. But will these suffice for a man ? It would 
be an insult to any one, feeling as a man, formally to 
answer the question. But if higher pleasures are de- 
manded, these must be the pleasures of the soul. And 
these pleasures must depend on certain principles ; 
they must recognise a soul ; that is, they must recog- 
nise the properties and responsibilities of a soul ; they 
must recognise a conscience and the sense of an authori- 
ty above us ; and these are the principles of faith. 

Moreover, the soul on earth is placed in fearful straits 
of affliction and temptation. This too, it would be but 
an insult to human feeling formally to prove. And in 
this view, I maintain, and I only maintain what every 
reflecting man must feel to be true, that no tolerable 
scheme of life, no tolerable scheme of a rational, tried, 
suffering, and yet improving and happy existence, can 
be formed, which leaves out the religious principle, 
the principle of faith. I do not ask you to receive this 
as what is said in the pulpit, or, is wont to be laid 
down in religious discourse ; but I desire you to see 
that it stands, and stands eternally, in the very truth 



ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 161 



of things. A man cannot suffer and be patient ; he 
cannot struggle and conquer; he cannot improve and 
be happy, without conscience, without hope, without 
God in the world. Necessity is laid upon us to em- 
brace the great truths of religion and to live by them, 
to live happily ; and can the language of this necessity 
be mistaken ? Can it be, that while there is one thing, 
above all others, necessary to support, strengthen, 
guide and comfort us ; that one thing — upon which, 
moreover, the hearts of the wise and good have ever 
rested, — should be, of all things in the world, the thing 
most false, treacherous, and delusive ? 

It would be strange indeed, if it were so ; and 
strange would be the assertion even to the point of 
incredibility. What ! — we should say, — has every 
thing in the universe certain laws and principles for 
its action ; the star in its orbit, the animal in its ac- 
tivity, the human body in its functions ; and has the 
human soul nothing to guide it? Nay, man as a 
physical being, has strong and sure supports. Has he 
none as a spiritual being? He knows how to feed and 
nourish his body ; there are laws for that. Must his 
soul die, for want of aliment ; for want of guidance ? 
For his physical action too, he has laws of art. The 
builder, the sower, the toiler at the oar and the anvil, 
has certain principles to go by. Has the man none at 
all ? Nay more, the wants of animal sense are regard- 
ed. In every hedge, and water-pool, and mountain 
top, there is supply. For the rational soul is there no 
provision ? From the lofty pine, rocked in the dark- 
ening tempest, the cry of the young raven is heard. 
And for the cry and the call of all that want and 
sorrow and agony that overshadow and rive the 
human heart, is there no answer ? 

But I cannot argue the point any farther ; and I 
14* 



162 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



need not ; it is too plain. The total rejection of all 
moral and religious belief, strikes out a principle from 
human nature as essential to it, as gravitation is to 
inanimate nature, as instinct is to animal life, or as the 
circulation of the blood to the human body. 

It is on this principle that it is said, " he that be- 
lieveth not, shall be damned." This is apt to be re- 
garded as a harsh declaration ; but the truth is, it is 
only the assertion of a simple fact ; and of a fact which 
every thoughtful and feeling mind knows to be true. 
The Bible speaks, as we should speak to the famished 
man, saying " eat — drink ; or die !" Its words, "death" 
and "damnation," mean nothing else but that un- 
avoidable misery which must spring from boundless 
wants unsatisfied ; boundless w T ants which nothing but 
boundless objects, the objects of faith, can satisfy. 

I have now considered life as an argument, and an 
independent argument for faith. It would be easy to 
spread this view of life, over the whole ground of that 
preliminary discussion, which introduces the evidences 
of Christianity ; and to show that the presumption of 
reason and experience, and the whole weight of that 
presumption, instead of being, as is commonly suppo- 
sed, against the believer, is, in fact, in his favour. But 
the space which I designed to give to this topic, is 
already taken up by the few hints which I have laid 
before you ; and I must now pass to the other branch 
of my discourse, and occupy the time that remains to 
me, with the consideration of life as an argument for 
accomplishing its moral design ; in other words, as a 
motive to virtue. This too, as well as the former, I 
propose to consider as an independent topic. 

Thus, then, I state it. Let w T hat will be true, or be 
false ; admit ever so little into your creed, reject ever 
so much ; nay, go to the uttermost limits of skepticism ; 



ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 163 



deny revelation ; deny the " elder Scripture" written 
in the heart ; deny the very being of a God! — what 
then ? I will now express no horror nor wonder, 
though I might do so ; I will speak to you as a calm 
reasoner : and I say, what then ? Why here you are, 
a living being ; there can be no skepticism about that ; 
here you are, a living being, alive to happiness, alive 
to misery; here you are in vicissitude, in uncertainty, in 
all the accidents of a mingled lot, in conditions and 
relations that touch all the secret springs of the soul ; 
here you are, amidst a frail life, and daily approaching 
to certain death ; and if you say you have no con- 
cern nor care for the end of all this, then have you 
forfeited all claim to the attributes of a reasonable 
nature, and are not to be addressed as a reasonable 
creature. 

But no one says this. No one refuses to come 
within the range of those considerations that bind him 
to fulfil his destiny, to accomplish the legitimate 
objects of his being, to be upright, virtuous, and pure. 
No one rejects this bond in theory, however he may 
resist it in practice. 

Let us see, then, how strong this bond is. Let us 
look at life, as a social, and as a a individual lot. 

God has ordained that life shall be a social condition. 
We are members of a civil community. The life, the 
more than life of that community, depends upon its 
moral condition. Public spirit, intelligence, upright- 
ness, temperance, kindness, domestic purity, will make 
it a happy community. Prevailing selfishness, dishon- 
esty, intemperance, libertinism, crime, will make it a 
miserable community. Look then at this life which 
a whole people is living. Look at the heavings of its 
mighty heart, at the throbbings of the universal pulse 
of existence. Look at the stream of life, as it flows, 



/ 



164 ON HUMAN LIFE. 

with ten thousand intermingled branches and channels, 
through all the homes of human love. Listen to that 
sound as of many waters, that rapturous jubilee, or that 
mournful sighing, that comes up from the congregated 
dwellings of a whole nation. 

I know that to many, the Public is a kind of vague 
abstraction : and that what is done against the Public, 
the public interest, law, or virtue, presses lightly on the 
conscience. Yet what is this Public, but a vast expan- 
sion of individual life ? — an ocean of tears, an atmos- 
phere of sighs ; or a surrounding world of joy and 
gladness ? It suffers with the suffering of millions. 
It rejoices with the joy of millions. Who then art 
thou — private man or public man, agent or contractor, 
senator or magistrate, cabinet secretary or lofty presi- 
dent — who art thou that darest, with indignity and 
wrong, to strike the bosom of the public welfare ? 
Who art thou, that with vices, like the daggers of a 
parricide, darest to pierce that mighty heart, in which 
the ocean of existence is flowing ? 

But have we, in this general view, presented all that 
belongs to social life ? No ; there are other relations. 
You are a parent or a child, a brother or a sister, a hus- 
band, wife, friend, or associate. What an unequalled 
interest lies in the virtue of every one whom thou lov- 
est ? Ay, in his virtue, nowhere but in his virtue, is 
garnered up the incomparable treasure. Thy brother, 
thy husband, thy friend ; what carest thou for, com- 
pared with what thou carest for his honour, his fidelity, 
his kindness ? Thy parent ; how venerable is his rec- 
titude ! how sacred his reputation ! and what blight is 
there to thee, like his dishonour ! Thy child — ay, thy 
child ! — be thou heathen or Christian, thou would'st 
have him do well : thou hast poured ou all the fulness 
of parental love in the one desire, that he may do well ; 



ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 165 



that he may be worthy of thy cares and thy freely 
bestowed gains ; that he may walk in the way of 
honour and happiness. And yet he cannot walk one 
step in that way without virtue. Such, yes. such is 
life in its relationships. A thousand clasping ties em- 
brace it ; each one sensitive and thrilling to the touch ; 
each one like the strings of a delicate instrument, ca- 
pable of sweet melodies and pleasures ; but each one, 
wounded, lacerated, broken, by rudeness, by anger, 
and by guilty indulgence. 

But that life, my friends, whose springs of powerful 
action are felt in every department and relationship of 
society ; whose impulses are abroad everywhere, like 
waves upon the boundless sea ; that life gathers up 
and concentrates all its energies upon the individual 
mind and heart. To that individual experience — to 
mine, to yours — I would last appeal. 

The personal experience of life, I say ; by what 
strange fatality is it, that it can escape the calls which 
religion and virtue make upon it ? Oh, if it were 
something else ; if it were something duller than it is ; 
if it could, by any process, be made insensible to pain 
and pleasure ; if the human heart were but made a 
thing as hard as adamant, then were the case a differ- 
ent one : then might avarice, ambition, sensuality 
channel out their paths in it, and make it their beaten 
way, and none might wonder at it, or protest against 
it. If we could but be patient under the load of a 
worldly life : if we could — Oh ! Heaven ! how impos- 
sible ! — if we could bear the burthen, as beasts of bur- 
then bear it ; then as beasts might we bend all our 
thoughts to the earth ; and no call from the great 
heavens above us, might startle us from our plodding 
and earthly course. 

But to what a being, to what a nature, am I permit- 



166 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



ted in the name of truth and religion to speak ? If I 
might use the freedom with which one would speak to 
a son, who was casting off all holy bonds, I should say 
" you are not a stone ; you are not an earth-clod ; you 
are not an insensible brute ; yet, you ought to be such, 
to refuse the call of reason and conscience. Your body 
should be incapable of pain and your soul of remorse. 
But such you are not, and cannot make yourself." 
When the great dispensation of life presses down upon 
you, my friend, how is it with you ? You weep ; you 
suffer and sorrow. I hold every human being to that. 
Think what we will ; speculate as wildly, doubt as 
rashly as we can ; yet here is a matter of fact. Cold, 
dead, earthly, or philosophic, as we may be, yet we are 
beings that weep, that suffer and sorrow. What ! sor- 
row and agony — can they dwell in the same heart with 
worldliness and irreligion, and desire no other compan- 
ionship ? Tell me not of the recklessness of melan- 
choly and disappointment, or the desperation of vice. 
Say not, young man, that you care nothing what be- 
falls in this miserable and worthless life. Reckless- 
ness, with its scornful lip and its smothered anger : 
desperation, with its knitted brow and its glaring eye ; 
I have seen it ; and what is it ? What is it, but agony 
— agony which almost chokes the voice that is all the 
while striving to tell us how calm and indifferent it is? 

But let us look at the matter coolly ; coolly, as if it 
were a matter of the most deliberate calculation. You 
are a toiler in the field of life. You would not consent 
to labour, for a week, nor for a day ; no, and you will 
not lift one burthen from the earth, without a recom- 
pense. Are you willing to bear those burthens of the 
heart, fear, anxiety, disappointment, trouble — compar- 
ed with which the severest toil is a pleasure and a pas- 
time ; and all this without any object or use ? You 



ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 167 



are a lover of pleasure. And you would not volunta- 
rily forego an hour's pleasure without some object to 
be gained by it, the preservation of health, or the pros- 
pect of future, compensatory enjoyments. Are you 
willing then to suffer ; to be sick or afflicted — for so, 
from time to time, does the dispensation of life press 
upon you — are you willing to have days and months 
lost to comfort and joy, overshadowed with calamity 
and grief, without any advantage, any compensation? 
You are a dealer in the merchandise of this world. 
And you would not, without a return, barter away the 
most trifling article of that merchandise. Will you 
thus barter away the dearest treasures of your heart, 
the very sufferings of your heart ? Will you sell the 
very life-blood from your failing frame and fading cheek, 
will you sell tears of bitterness and groans of anguish, 
for nothing ? Can human nature, frail, feeling, sensi- 
tive, sorrowing human nature, afford to suffer for noth- 
ing ? 

I have touched now upon the darker colouring of 
human experience ; but that experience, whether bright 
or dark, is all vivid ; it is all, according to the measure 
of every one's power, earnest and affecting ; it is all in 
its indications, solemn and sublime ; it is all moving 
and monitory. In youth, in age, it is so ; in mature 
vigour, in failing and declining strength ; in health and 
in sickness ; in joy and in sorrow ; in the musings of 
solitude, and amidst the throng of men ; in privacy and 
amidst the anxieties and intrigues of public station ; 
in the bosom of domestic quietude, and alike in the 
press and shock of battle ; every wiiere, human life is 
a great and solemn dispensation. Man, suffering, en- 
joying, loving, hating, hoping, fearing ; now soaring 
to heaven, and now sinking to the grave ; man is ever 
the creature of a high and stupendous destiny. In his 



168 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



bosom is wrapped up. a momentous, an all-comprehend- 
ing experience, whose unfolding is to be, in ages and 
worlds unknown. Around this great action of exist- 
ence, the curtains of time are drawn, but there are 
openings through them, to the visions of eternity. God 
from on high looks down upon this scene of human 
probation ; Jesus hath interposed for it, with his teach- 
ings and his blood ; heaven above waits with expecta- 
tion ; hell from beneath is moved at the fearful crisis ; 
every thing, every thing that exists around us, every 
movement in nature, every counsel of providence, every 
interposition of heavenly grace, centres upon one point 
— upon one point — the fidelity of man ! 

Will he not be faithful ? Will he not be thoughtful ? 
Will he not do the work, that is given him to do ? To 
his lot — such a lot ; to his wants, weighing upon 
him like mountains ; to his sufferings, lacerating his 
bosom with agony ; to his joys, offering foretastes of 
heaven ; to all this tried and teaching life, will he not 
be faithful ? Will not you ? Shall not I, my brother ? 
If not, what remains — what can remain, to be done 
for us ? If we will not hear these things, neither should 
we believe, though one rose from the dead. No ; 
though the ghosts of the departed and the remembered, 
should come at midnight through the barred doors of 
our dwellings ; though the sheeted dead should stalk 
through the very aisles of our churches ; they could not 
more powerfully teach us than the dread realities of 
life ; nay more, and those memories of misspent years 
too, those ghosts of departed opportunities, that point 
to our consciences and point to eternity, saying, ? work 
while the day lasts, for the night of death cometh in 
which no man can work !" 



XI. 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 
UNTO the pure are all things pure. — Epistle of Paul to Titus i. 15. 

And to expand the same sentiment a little ; all things 
bear to us, a character corresponding with the state of 
our own minds. Life is what we make it ; and the 
world is what we make it. 

I can conceive that to some who hear me, this may 
appear to be a very singular, if not extravagant state- 
ment. You look upon this life and upon this world, 
and you derive from them, it may be, a very different 
impression. You see the earth perhaps, only as a col- 
lection of blind, obdurate, inexorable elements and 
powers. You look upon the mountains that stand 
fast for ever ; you look upon the seas, that roll upon 
every shore their ceaseless tides ; you walk through 
the annual round of the seasons ; all things seem to be 
fixed, summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, 
growth and decay ; and so they are. But does not 
the mind, after all, spread its own hue over all these 
scenes ? Does not the cheerful man make a cheerful 
world? Does not the sorrowing man make a gloomy 
world ? Does not every mind make its own world ? 
Does it not, as if indeed a portion of the Divinity were 
imparted to it ; does it not almost create the scene 
around it? Its power, in fact, scarcely falls short of 
15 



170 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



the theory of those philosophers, who have supposed 
that the world had no existence at all, but in our own 
minds. So again with regard to human life : it seems 
to many, probably, unconscious as they are of the 
mental and moral powers which control it, as if it 
were made up of fixed conditions, and of immense and 
impassable distinctions. But upon all conditions press- 
es down one impartial law. To all situations, to all 
fortunes high or low, the mind gives their character. 
They are in effect, not what they are in themselves, but 
what they are to the feeling of their possessors. The 
king upon his throne and amidst his court may be a 
mean, degraded, miserable man ; a slave to ambition, 
to voluptuousness, to fear, to every low passion. The 
peasant in his cottage, may be the real monarch ; the 
moral master of his fate ; the free and lofty being, 
more than a prince in happiness, more than a king in 
honour. And shall the mere names which these men 
bear, blind us to the actual positions which they occu- 
py amidst God's creation ? No ; beneath the all-pow- 
erful law of the heart, the master, is often a slave ; and 
the slave — is master. 

It has been maintained, I know, in opposition to the 
view which we take of life, that man is the creature 
of circumstances. But what is there in the circum- 
stances of the slave to make him free in spirit, or of 
the monarch to make him timid and time-serving? 
This doctrine of fate — that man is but a bubble upon 
the sea of his fortunes, that he is borne a helpless 
and irresponsible being upon the tide of events, — is no 
new doctrine, as some of its modern advocates seem 
to suppose ; it has always formed a leading part of the 
creed of Atheism. But I ask if the reverse of this doc- 
trine is not obviously true ? Do not different men 
bring out of the same circumstances totally differ- 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



171 



ent results? Does not that very difficulty, distress, 
poverty or misfortune, which breaks down one man, 
build up another and make him strong? It is the 
very attribute, the glory of a man ; it is the very 
power and mastery of that will which constitutes one 
of his chief distinctions from the brute, that he can 
bend the circumstances of his condition to the in- 
tellectual and moral purposes of his nature. 

But it may be said, that the mind itself, is the off- 
spring of culture ; that is to say, the creature of 
circumstances. This is true, indeed, of early child- 
hool. But the moment that the faculty of moral will 
is developed, a new element is introduced, which 
changes the whole complexion of the argument. Then 
a new power is brought upon the scene, and it is a rul- 
ing power. It is delegated power from heaven. There 
never was a being sunk so low, but God has thus 
given him the power to rise. God commands him to 
rise, and therefore, it is certain, that he can rise. Every 
man has the power and every man should use it, to 
make all situation, all trials and temptations, conspire 
to the promotion of his virtue and happiness. In this, 
then, the only intelligible sense, man, so far from being 
the creature of circumstances, creates them, controls 
them, makes them, that is to say, to be all they are 
of evil or good to him as a moral being. 

Life then is what we make it, and the world is what 
we make it. Even our temporary moods of mind, and 
much more, our permanent character, whether social 
or religious, may be appealed to in illustration of this 
truth. 

I. Observe, in the first place, the effect of our most 
casual moods of mind. 

It is the same creation upon which the eyes of the 
cheerful and the melancholy man are fixed ; yet how 



172 



ON HUMAN LIFE* 



different are the aspects which it bears to them ! To 
the one it is all beauty and gladness ; " the waves of 
ocean roll in light, and the mountains are covered 
with day." It seems to him as if life went forth re- 
joicing upon every bright wave, and every shining 
bough, shaken in the breeze. It seems as if there 
were more than the eye seeth ; a presence, a presence 
of deep joy, among the hills and the valley s, and upon 
the bright waters. But now the gloomy man, stricken 
and sad at heart, stands idly or mournfully gazing at 
the same scene, and what is it? What is it, to him ? 
The very light, — " Bright effluence of bright essence 
increate," — yet the very light seems to him as a lead- 
en pall thrown over the face of nature. All things 
wear to his eye a dull, dim, and sickly aspect. The 
great train of the seasons is passing before him, but he 
sighs and turns away, as if it were the train of a fune- 
ral procession ; and he wonders within himself at the 
poetic representations and sentimental rhapsodies that 
are lavished upon a world so utterly miserable. Here 
then, are two different worlds in which these two 
classes of beings live ; and they are formed and made 
what they are out of the very same scene, only by dif- 
ferent states of mind in the beholders. The eye 
maketh that which it looks upon. The ear maketh 
its own melodies or discords. The world without 
reflects the world within. 

II. Again, this life, this world is what we make 
it, by our social character ; by our adaptation, or 
want of adaptation, to its social conditions, relation- 
ships and pursuits. To the selfish, to the cold and 
insensible, to the haughty and presuming, to the proud 
who demand more than they are likely to receive, to 
the jealous, who are always afraid they shall not re- 
ceive enough, to the unreasonably sensitive about 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 173 

others' good or ill opinion, and in fine, to the violators 
of social laws, of all sorts, the rude, the violent, the 
dishonest and the sensual ; to all these, the social con- 
dition, from its very nature will present annoyances, 
disappointments and pains, appropriate to their several 
characters. Every disposition and behaviour has a 
kind of magnetic attraction, by which it draws to it, 
its like. Selfishness will hardly be a central point 
around which the benevolent affections will revolve ; 
the cold-hearted may expect to be treated with coldness, 
and the proud with haughtiness ; the passionate with 
anger, and the violent with rudeness ; and those who 
forget the rights of others, must not be surprised if 
their own are forgotten ; and those who forget their 
dignity, who stoop to the lowest embraces of sense, must 
not wonder, if others are not concerned to find their 
prostrate honour, and to lift it up to the remembrance 
and respect of the world. Thus, the bad make the 
social world they live in. So, also, do the good. To 
the gentle, how many will be gentle ; to the kind, how 
many will be kind ! How many does a lovely exam- 
ple win to goodness ! How many does meekness sub- 
due to a like temper, when they come into its presence ! 
How many does sanctity purify ! How many does it 
command to put away all earthly defilements, when 
they step upon its holy ground ! Yes, a good man, a 
really good man, will find that there is goodness in 
the world ; and an honest man will find that there is 
honesty in the world ; a man of principle will find 
principle ; yes, a principle of religious integrity, in the 
hearts of others. I know that this is sometimes denied, 
and denied with much scorn and self-complacency. 
But when a man says that true religious virtue is all 
a pretence, though the charge is put forward in quite 
another guise, I confess that I most of all suspect the 
15* 



174 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



heart of the complainant. I suspect that it is a heart, 
itself estranged from truth and sanctity, that can find 
no truth nor sincerity in all the religious virtue that 
is around it. True, most true, most lamentably true 
it is ; nothing is so lamentably true, as that there is 
too little religious fervour in the world ; but still there is 
a feeling ; there is some religious sensibility, the most 
precious deposite in the heart of society ; there is some 
anxiety, on this great theme, holy and dear, to him 
whose mind is touched with that inexpressible emotion ; 
and he whose mind is so touched, will as certainly 
find those deep tokens of the soul's life, as the kindling 
eye will find beauty amidst the creation, or as the 
attuned ear will find the sweet tone of music amidst 
the discords of nature. Thus it is, that the mind dis- 
covers social virtue and develops the social world 
around it. The corrupt mind elicits what is bad ; and 
the pure mind brings out what is good. 

But the pure mind makes its own social world, in 
another sense. It not only unfolds that world to it- 
self, but all its relations to society are sanctified ; the 
otherwise rough contracts of life are softened to it, and 
its way is graciously made smooth and easy. The 
general complaint is, that society is full of mistrust and 
embarrassment, of competitions, and misunderstand- 
ings, and unkind criticisms and unworthy jealousies. 
But let any one bear within him a humble mind ; let 
him be too modest to make any unreasonable demands 
upon others, too mistrustful and tenderly solicitous 
about the keeping of his own heart, to be severe or 
censorious: let him simply be a good man, full of true 
and pure love to those around him, full of love to God, 
full of holy indifference to earthly vanities, full of the 
heavenward thought, that soars far beyond them ; and 
what, now, has this man to do with worldly strifes and 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT, 



175 



intrigues, with poor questions of precedence, and the 
small items of unsettled disputes and unsatisfied sus- 
picions ? An excellent simplicity that cannot under- 
stand them, a high aim that cannot bend its eye upon 
them, a generous feeling that cannot enter into them, 
a goodness that melts all difference into harmony ; this 
is the wise man's protection and blessing. 

Ill, I have spoken of the world of nature, and of 
the world of society. There is also a world of events, 
of temptations and trials and blessings : and this, too, 
is what we make it It is what we make it by our 
religious character. 

There are no blessings — and it is a stupendous truth 
that I utter — there are no blessings which the mind 
may not convert into the bitterest of evils ; and there 
are no trials, which it may not transform into the most 
noble and divine of blessings. There are no tempta- 
tions from which the virtue they assail, may not gain 
strength, instead of falling a sacrifice to them. I 
know that the virtue often falls. I know that the 
temptations have great power. But what is their 
power ? It lies in the weakness of our virtue. Their 
power lies not in them, but in us. in the treason of our 
own hearts. To the pure, all things are pure. The 
proffer of dishonest gain, of guilty pleasure, makes them 
more pure : raises their virtue to the height of tower- 
ing indignation. The fair occasion, the safe opportu- 
nity, the goodly chance of victory, with which sin 
approaches the heart to ensnare and conquer it, all are 
turned into defeat and disgrace for the tempter, and 
into the triumph and confirmation of virtue. But to 
the impure, to the dishonest, false-hearted, corrupt and 
sensual, occasions come every day, and in every scene, 
and through every avenue of thought and imagination. 
To the impure occasions come, did I say? rather do 



176 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



tbey make occasions ; or if opportunities come not, 
evil thoughts come ; no hallowed shrine, no holy tem- 
ple, no sphere of life, though consecrated to purity and 
innocence, can keep them out. So speaketh the sa- 
cred text, and in this very striking language : " To the 
pure all things are pure ; but to them that are defiled 
and unbelieving, nothing is pure ; for even their mind 
and conscience is defiled." 

Thus might we pass in survey all the circumstances 
of man's earthly condition, and bring from every state 
and pursuit of human life, the same conclusion. Upon 
the irreligious man, the material world has the effect 
to occupy him and estrange him from God ; but to the 
devout man, the same scene is a constant ministration 
of high and holy thoughts. Thus also, the business 
of this world, while it absorbs, corrupts and degrades 
one mind, builds up another in the most noble inde- 
pendence, integrity and generosity. So too pleasure, 
which to some is a noxious poison, is to others, a 
healthful refreshment. The scene is the same. The 
same event happeneth to all. Life is substantially 
the same thing to all who partake of its lot. Yet some 
rise to virtue and glory ; and others sink, from the 
same discipline, from the same privileges, to shame 
and perdition. 

Life then, I repeat, is what we make it, and the 
world is what we make it. Life, that is to say, takes 
its colouring from our own minds ; the world as the 
scene of our welfare or wo, is, so to speak, moulded 
in the bosom of human experience. The archetypes, 
the ideal forms of things without — if not as some phi- 
losophers have said, in a metaphysical sense, yet in a 
moral sense — they exist within us. The world is the 
mirror of the soul. Life is the history, not of out- 
ward events, not of outward events chiefly ; but life, 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 177 

human life, is the history of a mind. To the pure, all 
things are pure. To the joyous, all things are joyous. 
To the gloomy, all things are gloomy. To the good, 
all things are good. To the bad, all things are bad. 
The world is nothing but a mass of materials, subject 
to a great moral experiment. The human breast is the 
laboratory. We work up those materials into what 
forms we please. This illustration too, if any one 
should take me too literally, will furnish the proper 
qualification. The materials, indeed, are not absolute- 
ly under our control. They obey the laws of a higher 
power. Those laws, too, are fixed laws. Yet the 
chemist in his laboratory, accomplishes all that he ra- 
tionally desires to accomplish. The elements are 
enough under his command to answer all his purposes. 
Nay, if they did not furnish difficulties and require 
experiments, his science would not exist ; his know- 
ledge would be intuition. So with the moral experi- 
menter. He has to overcome difficulties, to solve 
questions; still, within the range of rational wishes, 
and in submission to the power of God, he can work 
out what results he pleases ; and if there were no 
difficulties, there would be no virtue, no moral science 
of life. 

I am sensible that I have dwelt at considerable 
length upon the proofs of my doctrine ; but I must 
beg your indulgence to some farther consideration of 
it, in application to two states of mind ; I mean to 
complaint and discouragement. These states of mind 
have, indeed, the same leaning, but still they are very 
different. Complaint is bold and open-mouthed, and 
speaks like one injured and wronged. Discourage- 
ment is timid and silent : it does not consider whether 
it is wronged, but it knows that it is depressed, and at 
times, almost crushed to the earth. There are many 



178 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



minds to be found in one or other of these conditions. 
Indeed, I think that the largest amount of human suf- 
fering may be found in the form either of complaint 
or of discouragement; and if there be any thing in the 
doctrine of this discourse, to disarm the one, or to re- 
lieve the other, it well deserves a place in our medi- 
tations. 

Our complaints of life, mainly proceed upon the 
ground, that for our unhappiness, something is in fault 
besides ourselves ; and I maintain that this ground is 
not fairly taken. We complain of the world ; we com- 
plain of our situation in the world. 

Let us look a moment at this last point; what is 
called a situation in the world. In the first place, it is 
commonly what we make it, in a literal sense. We 
are high or low, rich or poor, honoured or disgTaced, 
usually, just in proportion as we have been industrious 
or idle, studious or negligent, virtuous or vicious. 
But in the next place, suppose that without any fault 
of our own, our situation is a trying one. Doubtless 
it is so, in many instances. But then I say that the 
main point affecting our happiness in this case, is not 
our situation, but the spirit with which we meet it. In 
the humblest conditions, are found happy men ; in the 
highest, unhappy men. And so little has mere condi- 
tion to do with happiness, that a just observation, I 
am persuaded, will find about an equal proportion of 
it, among the poor and the rich, the high and the low. 
" But my relation to the persons or things around me,"' 
one may say, " is peculiarly trying ; neither did I 
choose the relation ; I would gladly escape from it." 
Still, I answer, a right spirit may bring from this very 
relation, the noblest virtue and the noblest enjoyment. 
"Ah ! the right spirit !" — it may be said — "to obtain 
that is my greatest difficulty. Doubtless, if I had the 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



179 



spirit of an angel, or of an Apostle, I might get along 
very well. Then I should not be vexed, nor angered, 
nor depressed. But the very effort to gain that serene 
and patient mind, is painful, and often unsuccessful." 
Yes, and the ill success is the pain. It is not true, 
that thorough, faithful endeavour to improve is un- 
happy • that honest endeavour I mean, which is always 
successful. On the contrary, it is, this side heaven, 
the highest happiness. The misery of the effort is 
owing to its insufficiency. The misery then, is mainly 
our own fault. 

On every account therefore, I must confess, that I 
am disposed to entertain a very ill opinion of misery. 
Whether regarded as proceeding from a man's condi- 
tion or from his own mind, I cannot think well of it. 
I cannot look upon it with the favour which is accord- 
ed to it by much modern poetry and sentiment. 
These sentimental si^hingrs over human misfortune 
which we hear, are fit only for children, or at least for 
the mind's childhood. You may say if you will, that 
the preacher's heart is hard when he avers this, or that 
he knows not trial or grief ; but if you do, it will be 
because you do not understand the preacher's argu- 
ment ; no, nor his mind neither. What I say to you 
I say to myself; the mind's misery, is chiefly, its own 
fault. Sentimental sighings there may be in early 
youth, and in a youthful and immature poetry ; but he 
who has come to the manhood of reason and experi- 
ence, should know, what is true, that the mind's 
misery is chiefly its own fault ; nay more, and is ap- 
pointed, under the good providence of God, as the 
punisher and corrector of its fault. Trial is indeed a 
part of our lot ; but suffering is not to be confounded 
with trial. Nay, amidst the severest trials, the mind's 
happiness may be the greatest that it ever knew. It 



180 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



has been so, in a body racked with pain ; nay, and in 
a body consumed by the fire of the martyr's sacrifice. 
I am willing, however, to allow that some exceptions 
are to be made : as for instance, in the first burst of 
grief or in the pains of lingering disease. The mind 
must have time for reflection, and it must have strength 
left to do its work. But its very work, its very office 
of reflection, is to bring good out of evil, happiness out 
of trial. And when it is rigidly guided, this work it 
will do ; to this result it will come. In the long run, 
it will be happy, just in proportion to its fidelity and 
wisdom. Life will be what it makes life to be, and the 
world will be what the mind makes it. With artifi- 
cial wants, with ill-regulated desires, with selfish 
and sensitive feelings of its own cherishing, the mind 
must be miserable. And what then, is its misery? 
Hath it not planted in its own path the thorns that 
annoy it ? And doth not the hand that planted grasp 
them ? Is not the very loudness of the complaint, but 
the louder confession, on the part of him who makes it ? 

The complaint nevertheless with some, is very loud. 
"It is not a happy world/' a man says, "but a very 
miserable world ; those who consider themselves saints 
may talk about a kind Providence : he cannot see much 
of it ; those who have all their wishes gratified may 
think it is very well ; but he never had his wishes 
gratified ; and nobody cares whether he is gratified or 
not ; every body is proud and selfish," he says ; " if 
there is so much goodness in the world, he wishes he 
could see some of it. This beautiful world ! as some 
people call it ; for his part he never saw any thing beau- 
tiful in it ; but he has seen troubles and vexations, 
clouds and storms enough ; and he has had long, te- 
dious, weary days, and dark and dull nights; if he 
could sleep through his whole life, and never want 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



181 



any thing, it would be a comfort." Mistaken man ! 
doubly mistaken ; mistaken about the world, mista- 
ken in thyself ; the world thou complainest of, is not 
God's world, but thy world ; it is not the world which 
God made, bat it is the world which thou hast made 
for thyself. The fatal blight, the dreary dullness, the 
scene so distasteful and dismal, is all in thyself. The 
void, the blank, amidst the whole rich and full universe, 
is in thy heart. Fill thy heart with goodness, and 
thou wilt find that the world is full of good. Kindle 
a light within, and then the world will shine brightly 
around thee. But till then, though all the luminaries 
of heaven shed down their entire and concentrated ra- 
diance upon this world, it would be dark to thee. " The 
light that should be in thee, is darkness ; and how 
great is that darkness !" 

But I must turn in close, to address myself for a mo- 
ment, to a very different state of mind, and that is dis- 
couragement. Complaint is to be blamed ; but there 
is a heavy and uncomplaining discouragement press- 
ing upon many minds, which demands a kinder 
consideration. They have tried and not succeeded ; 
they have tried again, and failed — of the ends, the 
objects, which they sought ; and they say, at length, 
" we give over ; we can never do any thing in this 
world ; ill fortune has taken the field against us, and 
we will battle with it no longer." Yet more to be 
pitied are those who have never had even the courage 
to strive ; who, from their very cradle, have felt them- 
selves depressed by untoward circumstances, by humble 
state or humble talents. Oftentimes the mind in such 
a case is, in culture and power, far beyond its own esti- 
mate ; but it has no aptitude for worldly success ; it 
has no power to cause itself to be appreciated by others ; 
it has no charm of person or speech ; it is neglected by 



1S2 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



society, where almost every one is too much occupied 
with his own advancement, to think of pining- merit ; 
it is left to silent and solitary hours of discourage- 
ment and despondency. And in such hours — perhaps 
there are some here present who can bear me witness — 
the thoughts that sink deeply into the heart, though 
never it may be, breathed in words, are such as these : 
" My chance in this world, is a poor one : I have 
neither wealth, nor talents, nor family ; I have nothing 
to give me importance ; I have no friends to help me 
forward, or to introduce me favourably to the world ; 
I have no path open to me ; my succees is poor, even 
my expectation is poor. Let the fortunate be thankful, 
but I am not fortunate ; the great prizes are not for 
me ; despond I needs must, for hope I have none ; I 
will sit down in silence, and eat the bread of a neglect- 
ed lot ; I will weep ; but even that is useless ; away 
then, hope ! away tears ! — I will bear my heart calmly, 
though sadly, in its way, through a cold, ungenial, 
unkind world." 

And yet above this man is spread the sublimity of 
heaven, around him the beauty of earth ; to this man is 
unfolded the vision of God ; for this man Christ hath 
died, and to him, heaven is unveiled : before this man 
lies the page of wisdom and inspiration ; and wisdom 
and sanctity, it is still given him to learn and gain ; 
wisdom and sanctity, inward, all-sufficing and eternal. 
The universe is fall and rich for him. The heaven 
of heavens invites him to its abode ! 

Oh ! the intolerable worldliness of the world ! — the 
worldliness of fashion and fashionable opinion ! the 
worldliness of our eager throngs, and our gay water- 
ing-places, and our crowded cities, and our aspiring 
literature, and our busy commerce ! Distinction ! to 
be raised a little above the rest ; to be talked of and 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



183 



pointed at more than others ; this hath blinded us to 
the infinite good that is offered to all men. And this 
distinction ; what is it, after all ? Suppose that you 
were the greatest of the great ; one raised above kings ; 
one to whom courts and powers and principalities 
paid homage, and around whom admiring crowds ga- 
thered at every step. I tell you that I would rather 
have arrived at one profound conclusion of the sage's 
meditation in his dim study, than to win that gaze of 
the multitude. I tell you that I had rather gain the 
friendship and love of one pure and lofty mind, than 
to gain that empty applause of a court or a kingdom. 
What then must it be to gain the approval, the friend- 
ship, the love of that ONE, infinitely great— infinite- 
ly dear to the whole pure and happy creation ? 

Before these awful and sublime realities of truth 
and sanctity, sink ! all worldly distinction, and world- 
ly imaginations ! Discouragement and despondency ! 
— for a creature to whom God hath offered the loftiest 
opportunity and hope in the universe? A humble, 
depressed, unfortunate lot ! — for him, before whom are 
spread the boundless regions of truth, and wisdom, and 
joy ? A poor chance ! — for him who may gain 
heaven ? Ah ! sir, thy poverty, thy misfortune, is all 
in thyself. In the realm of God's beneficence, is an 
infinite fullness ; and it all may be yours. Even to 
the despised and persecuted Christians of old the 
Apostle said this ; and it is still, and for ever true, to 
all who can receive it. " Therefore," says he, in his 
lofty reasoning, " let no man glory in men ; for all 
things are yours ; whether the world, or life, or death, 
or things present or things to come ; all are yours, and 
ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's !" 



XII. 



ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 

THE LORD IS GOOD TO ALL, AND HIS TENDER MERCIES ARE OVER ALL HIS 

works. — Psalm cxly. 9. 

What I wish to suggest for your consideration from 
these words, is not the goodness of God only, but his 
goodness to all. I wish, in other words, to examine 
the prevailing opinion, that there is a great inequality 
in the distribution of the blessings of life. In opposi- 
tion to this opinion, I take up the words of the text. 

The Lord is good to all. It is not said merely that 
his tender mercies are over his works, but that they 
are over all his works. His providence is not only 
kind, but its kindness extends to every human being. 

There is no general view of life, perhaps, with which 
the minds of men are more strongly impressed, than 
with the apparent inequalities of the human lot. It 
is probably the most prolific source of all secret repi- 
ning and open complaint. Affliction of a severe kind, 
comes but seldom ; but this inequality in the state of 
life is permanent. It is perfectly obvious too. Every 
one can see the difference between his situation in life, 
his dwelling, his equipage, and the observance which 
is paid to him ; and those which belong to his more 
prosperous, wealthy or honoured neighbour. The 
distinctions of life, indeed, chiefly consist of the glare 
of outward things, and therefore more powerfully 
impress the senses. 



INEQUALITY OF LOT. 



185 



Now if it can be made to appear that there is in 
fact, considerable deception in these estimates; that 
things are far more impartially balanced in the system 
of providence at large, than is commonly imagined ; 
that inequality is not the rule of its operations, but 
only the exception to the rule ; it would serve the im- 
portant purpose of making us more contented with our 
lot ; more happy in the opportunities and means of 
happiness that are given to us all ; and more submis- 
sive and grateful, I would hope, to that Being who 
has so equally and so bountifully distributed them. 

To this subject then, let me direct your thoughts 
this morning. 

I. And in the first place you see, at once, an instance 
and an illustration of this impartiality of Divine Pro- 
vidence, in the inequalities caused by nature ; in the 
allotments of climate, temperature, soil and scenery. 

There is no one of us, perhaps, whose thoughts have 
not sometimes wandered to fairer climes than our own, 
to lands of richer productions and more luxuriant 
beauty ; to those isles and shores of the classic East, 
where all the glory of man has faded indeed, where 
all the monuments of his power and art have fallen 
to decay, but where nature lives forever, and forever 
spreads its unfading charm ; to the verdant and sunny 
vales of the South, regions of eternal Spring, where 
the circling seasons, as they pass, let fall no chill nor 
blight upon the fresh and fragrant bosom of the earth. 
But is there no counterpart to this scene ? Where 
does the volcano lift up its subterraneous thunders, 
and pour forth its flaming deluge ? It is in these very 
regions of eternal Spring. It is on the green and 
flowery mount, on the vine-clad hills ; fast by the 
quiet fold of the shepherd, and amidst the rejoicings 
of the vintage. Whence comes the fearful rumour of 
16* 



1S6 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



the earthquake, that has whelmed a city in ruins ? It 
comes from the land of the diamond and the cane ; 
from the hills of Ophir ; from groves of the palm and 
the olive ; from valleys loaded with fruits, and fanned 
with aromatic gales ; where if nature is more ener- 
getic to produce, she is also more energetic to destroy. 
Where does the dire pestilence walk in darkness, and 
the fell destruction waste at noon-day ? Amidst groves 
of spices, and beneath bowers of luxuriance ; and the 
beam that lights its victims to their tomb, is the bright- 
est beam of heaven, and the scenes of which they 
take their last hasty leave, are the fairest that nature 
displays ; as if life and death were intended to be set 
in the most visible and vivid contrast. And where, 
but there also, is that worse than plague and pesti- 
lence and earthquake, that degradation of the mind, 
that wide-spreading pestilence of the soul, that listless 
indolence, which only arouses, to deeds of passion ! 
Let the millions of Southern Asia, tell. Let Turkey, 
so often drenched with blood, answer. Let the wan- 
dering Arab, let the stupid Hottentot, let the slothful 
and sensual inhabitants of the fair isles of the Pacific, 
teach us. Who would not rather struggle with fiercer 
elements, than to sink an ignoble prey to the soft lan- 
guors of pleasure and the besotting indulgences of 
passion ? Who would not far prefer our wintry storm 
and "the hoarse sighings of the East wind," as it 
sweeps around us, if they will brace the mind to 
nobler attainments, and the heart to better duties ? 

There is one class of virtues that is fostered by the 
rigours of our climate, which deserves to be particular- 
ly noticed. I mean the domestic virtues. We are 
compelled, by the inclemency of our seasons, not only 
to have some permanent place of abode, but to resort 
to it. In milder regions, men live abroad ; they are 



INEQUALITY OF LOT. 



187 



scarcely obliged to have any domicil. We are compel- 
led to live at home ; and we attach a meaning to the 
term, and we hallow it with feelings that were un- 
known to the polished Greek and the voluptuous ilsia- 
tic. It is the angry and lowering sky of winter, that 
lights up the cheerful fire in our dwellings, and draws 
around the friendly circle. It is the cheerlessness of 
every thing abroad, that leads us to find or make 
pleasures within ; to resort to books and the inter- 
change of thought ; to multiply the sources of know- 
ledge and strengthen the ties of affection. It is the 
frowning face of nature, like the dark cloud of adver- 
sity, that lends attraction to all the sympathies and 
joys of home. 

II. But I come now in the second place to consider 
the impartiality of Divine Providence, in the condition 
of human life. Life — to borrow a comparison from 
the science of political economy — life, like nature, is a 
system of checks and balances. Every power of con- 
ferring happiness, is limited or else counteracted, by 
some other power either of good or evil. There is no 
blessing or benefit, but it has some drawback upon it ; 
and there is no inconvenience nor calamity, but it en- 
joys some compensation. This results from the very 
nature of things. You cannot enjoy things incom- 
patible. You cannot at once enjoy, for instance, the 
pleasures of the country and the town. You cannot 
mingle the quietude of obscurity with the emoluments 
and honours of office. You cannot have at the same 
time, the benefits of affliction and the joys of prosperi- 
ty. If you would reach the loftiest virtue, you must 
sometimes endure sickness and pain, and you must, 
sometimes, be bowed down with sorrow. If you would 
have perpetual ease and indulgence, you must resign 



188 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



something of noble fortitude, holy patience, and of the 
blessed triumphs of faith. 

The inequalities which appear in the condition of 
human life, relate chiefly to the possessions, the em- 
ployments, or the distinctions of society. If we should 
examine these, we should probably find that they are 
of less importance to our happiness than is commonly 
imagined. Indeed, we know that they all depend 
chiefly on the use that is made of them ; and their use 
depends upon the mind. Distinction and mediocrity, 
leisure and toil, wealth and poverty, have no intrinsic 
power of happiness or misery in their disposal. There 
is a principle within, that is to render them good or 
evil. 

But, not at present to insist on this ; these circum- 
stances of inequality, in themselves, are less than they 
seem. It is common, I know, to hear of the preroga- 
tives, the power, the independence, of the higher class- 
es of society. But Divine Providence acknowledges 
no such nobility ; no such exemption from the wants 
of the human lot. It teaches us very little about pre- 
rogative or independence, however the pride of man 
may flatter him. No tower of pride was ever high 
enough, to lift its possessor above the trials and fears 
and frailties of humanity. No human hand ever built 
the wall, nor ever shall, that will keep out affliction, 
pain and infirmity. Sickness, sorrow, trouble, death, 
are all-levelling dispensations. They know none high 
nor low. The chief wants of life, too, the great neces- 
sities of the human soul, give exemption to none. 
They make all poor, all weak. They put supplica- 
tion in the mouth of every human being, as truly as 
in that of the meanest beggar. 

Now consider society for one moment, in regard to 



INEQUALITY OF LOT. 



189 



its employments. And there is not, perhaps, a greater 
infatuation in the world, than for a man of active and 
industrious habits, to look with envy or repining upon 
the ease and leisure of his neighbour. Employment, 
activity, is one of the fundamental laws of human 
happiness. Ah ! the laborious indolence of him who 
has nothing to do ; the preying weariness, the stag- 
nant ennui of him who has nothing to obtain ; the 
heavy hours which roll over him, like the w r aters of a 
Lethean sea, that has not yet quite drowned the senses 
in their oblivious stupor ; the dull comfort of having 
finished a day ; the dreariness in prospect of another 
to come ; in one word, the terrible visitation of an 
avenging Providence to him that lives to himself ! 

But I need not dw^ell on a case so obvious, and pro- 
ceed, at once, to mention the distinction of wealth and 
poverty. 

It must not be denied that poverty, abject and despe- 
rate poverty, is a great evil ; but this is not a common 
lot, and it still more rarely occurs in this country, with- 
out faults or vices, which should forbid all complaint. 
Neither shall it here be urged, on the other hand, that 
riches are acquired w T ith many labours and kept w 7 ith 
many cares and anxieties ; for so also it may be said, 
and truly said, has poverty its toils and anxieties. 
The true answer to all difficulties on this subject, 
seems to be, that a " man's life consisteth not in the 
abundance of things w T hich he possesseth." The an- 
swer, in short, may be reduced to a plain matter of fact. 
There is about as much cheerfulness among the poor 
as among the rich. And I suspect, about as much con- 
tentment too. For we might add, that a man's life, if 
it consist at all in his possessions, does not consist in 
what he possesses, but in what he thinks himself to 
possess. Wealth is a comparative term. The desire 



190 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



of property grows, and at the same time the estimate 
of it lessens, with its accumulation. And thus it may 
come to pass, that he who possesses thousands may 
less feel himself to be rich, and to all substantial pur- 
poses, may actually be less rich, than he who enjoys a 
sufficiency. 

But not to urge this point, we say, that a man's life 
does not consist in these things. Happiness, enjoy- 
ment, the buoyant spirits of life, the joys of humanity, 
do not consist in them. They do not depend on this 
distinction, of being poor or rich. As it is with the 
earth, that there are living springs within it, which 
will burst forth somewhere, and that they are often 
most clear and healthful in tne most sterile and rushed 
spots ; so it is with the human heart. There are 
fountains of gladness in it : and why should they 
not revive the weary ? Why should they not cool 
the brow of labour, and the lips that are parched 
with toil ? Why should they not refresh the poor 
man? Nay, but they do; and they refresh him the 
more, because he is poor and weary. Man may hew 
out to himself cisterns, and how often are they broken 
cisterns, which are scrupulously and proudly guarded 
from his poorer fellow-man : but the great fountains 
which God has opened are for all. This and that 
man may endeavour to appropriate them to himself ; 
he may guide them to his reservoir ; he may cause 
them to gush forth in artificial fountains and to fall in 
artificial showers in his gardens ; but it is artificial 
still ; and one draught of the pure well-spring of 
honest, homely happiness, is better than them all ; and 
the shower which heaven sends, falls upon the rich 
and the poor, upon the high and the low alike ; and 
with still more impartial favour, descends upon the 
good and the evil, upon the just and the unjust. 



INEQUALITY OF LOT, 



191 



III. This impartiality will be still more manifest, if 
we reflect, in the third place, that far the greatest and 
most numerous of the divine favours are granted to all, 
without any discrimination. 

Look, in the first place, at the natural gifts of Provi- 
dence. The beauty of the earth, the glories of the 
sky ; the vision of the sun and the stars ; the bene- 
ficent laws of universal being ; the frame of society 
and of government ; protecting justice and Almighty 
providence; whose are these? What power of ap- 
propriation can say of any one of these, " this is mine 
and not another's ?" And what one of these would 
you part with for the wealth of the Indies, or all the 
splendors of rank or office? Again, your eye-sight — 
that regal glance that commands in one act, the out- 
spread and all-surrounding beauty of the fair universe 
— would you exchange it for a sceptre, or a crown ? 
And the ear — that gathers unto its hidden chambers all 
music and gladness — would you give it for a king- 
dom ? And that wonderful gift, speech — that breathes 
its mysterious accents into the listening soul of thy 
friend ; that sends forth its viewless messages through 
the still air, and imprints them at once upon the ears 
of thousands ; would you barter that gift for the re- 
nown of Plato or of Milton ? 

No, there are unappropriated blessings, blessings 
which none can appropriate, in every element of 
nature, in every region of existence, in every inspira- 
tion of life, which are infinitely better than all that can 
be hoarded in treasure, or borne on the breath of fame. 
All, of which any human being can say, " it is mine," 
is a toy, is a trifle, compared with what God has pro- 
vided for the great family of his children ! Is he poor 
to whom the great store-house of nature is opened, or 
does he think himself poor because it is God who has 



192 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



made him rich ? Does he complain that he cannot 
have a magnificent palace to dwell in, who dwells in 
this splendid theatre of the universe ; that he cannot 
behold swelling domes and painted walls, who beholds 
the " dread magnificence of heaven," and the pictured 
earth and sky ? Do you regret the want of attend- 
ants, of a train of servants, to anticipate every wish 
and bring every comfort at your bidding ? Yet how 
small a thing is it to be waited on, compared with the 
privilege of being yourself active ; compared with the 
vigour of health and the free use of your limbs and 
senses ? Is it a hardship that your table does not 
groan with luxuries ? But how much better than all 
luxury, is simple appetite ! 

The very circumstances which gain for the distinc- 
tions of life such an undue and delusive estimation, 
are such as ought to make us cautious about the esti- 
mate we put upon them. They are distinctions, and 
therefore likely to be overrated : but is that a good and 
sound reason why we should affix to them an undue 
importance 1 Ave the palaces of kings to be regarded 
with more interest, than the humbler roofs that shel- 
ter millions of human beings? What more is the mar- 
riage of a queen — to the individual mind — though sur- 
rounded with the splendor and state of a kingdom ; 
though accompanied with shining troops and announ- 
ced by roaring cannon ; what more is it than that mar- 
riage of hearts, that is every day consummated be- 
neath a thousand lowly roofs? The distinctions of 
life, too, are mostly factitious ; the work of art, and 
man's device. They are man's gifts, rather than God's 
gifts ; and for that reason I would esteem them less. 
They are fluctuating also, and therefore attract notice, 
but on that account too, are less valuable. They are 
palpable to the senses, attended with noise and show, 



INEQUALITY OF LOT. 



193 



and therefore likely to be over-estimated. While those 
vast benefits which all share and which are always the 
same, which come in the ordinary course of things, 
which do not disturb the ordinary and even tenor of 
life, pass by unheeded. The resounding chariot, as it 
rolls on with princely state and magnificence, is gazed 
upon with admiration and perhaps with envy. But 
morning comes forth in the east, and from his glori- 
ous chariot-wheels scatters light over the heavens and 
spreads life and beauty through the world : morning 
after morning comes, and noontide sets its throne in 
the southern sky, and the day finishes its splendid re- 
volution in heaven, without exciting, perhaps, a com- 
ment or a reflection. The pageant of fashion passes, 
and has the notice of many an eye, perhaps, to which 
it is all in vain that the seasons pass by in their glory ; 
that nature arrays herself in robes of light and beauty, 
and fills the earth with her train. To want what 
another possesses, to be outstripped in the race of 
honour or gain, to lose some of the nominal treasures 
of life, may be enough with some of us, to disturb 
and irritate us altogether ; and such an one shall 
think little of it that he has life itself and that he 
enjoys it ; it shall be nothing to him that he has quiet 
sleep in the night season, and that all the bounties of 
the day are spread before him; that he has friends 
and domestic joys, and the living fountain of cheerful 
spirits and affectionate pleasures within him. 

Nor must we stop here in our estimate. There is 
an infinite sum of blessings which have not yet been 
included in the account ; and these, like all the richest 
gifts of heaven, are open and free to all ; I mean the 
gifts, the virtues, the blessings of religion. 

It has already, indeed, sufficiently appeared, not only 
that the inequalities in the allotments of Providence, 
17 



194 



OS HUMAN LIFE. 



are attended with a system of compensations and 
drawbacks, which make them far less than they seem : 
and also on account of the vast blessings which are 
diffused every where and dispensed to all. that ine- 
quality, instead of being the rule of the Divine deal- 
ings, is only a slight exception to them. But we come 
now to a principle, that absorbs all other considera- 
tions : virtue, the only intrinsic, infinite, everlasting 
good, is accessible to all. If there were ever so strong 
and apparently just charges of partiality against the 
Divine Providence, this principle would be sufficient to 
vindicate it. u 0 God ! " exclaims the Persian poet 
Sadi, " have pity on the wicked ! for thou hast done 
every thing for the good, in having made them good.' 5 
How false and earthly are our notions of what 
is evil ! How possible is it that all advantages be- 
sides religion, may prove the greatest calamities ! 
How possible is it that distinction, that successful am- 
bition, that popular applause, may be the most injuri- 
ous, the mast fatal evil that could befall us ! How 
possible that wealth may be turned into the very worst 
of curses, by the self-indulgence, the dissipation, the 
vanity or hardness of heart that it may produce ! 
And there is a judgment too. short of the judgment of 
heaven, that pronounces it to be so : the judgment of 
every right and noble sentiment, of all good sense, of 
all true friendship. There is a friend, not a flatterer, 
who. as he witnesses in some one. this sad dereliction, 
this poor exultation of vanity, this miserable bondage 
to flattery, or this direful success of some dark tempta- 
tion — who. as he witnesses this, will say in his secret 
thoughts, with the Persian sage. " Oh ! God. have 
pity on the wicked : have pity on my friend ! would 
that he were poor and unnoticed, would that he were 
neglected or forsaken, rather than thus ! n It is there- 



INEQUALITY OF LOT. 



195 



fore a matter of doubt whether those things which we 
crave as blessings, would really be such to us. And 
then, as to the trials of life, their unequalled benefits 
are a sufficient answer to every objection that can be 
brought against their unequal distribution. 

We hear it said that there is much evil in the world ; 
and this or that scene of suffering is brought as an ex- 
ample of the partial dealings of heaven : and it is felt, 
if it is not said, perhaps, that "God's ways are une- 
qual." But the strongest objector on this ground, I 
think, would yield, if he saw that the attendant and 
fruit of all this suffering, were a fortitude, a cheerful- 
ness, a heavenliness, that shed brighter hues than 
those of earth, upon the dark scene of calamity and 
sorrow. I have seen suffering, sorrow, bereavement, 
all that is darkest in human fortunes, clothed with a 
virtue so bright and beautiful, that sympathy was al- 
most lost in the feeling of congratulation and joy. I 
have heard more than one sufferer say, " I am thank- 
ful ; God is good to me and when I heard that, I 
said, " it is good to be afflicted." There is, indeed, 
much evil in the world ; but without it, there would 
not be much virtue. The poor, the sick and the af- 
flicted, could be relieved from their trials at once, if it 
were best for them : but if they understood their own 
welfare, they would not desire exemption from their 
part in human trials. There might be a world of ease 
and indulgence and pleasure ; but " it is a world," to 
use the language of another, " from which, if the op- 
tion were given, a noble spirit would gladly hasten 
into that better world of difficulty and virtue and 
conscience, which is the scene of our present exist- 
ence." 

In fine, religion is a blessing so transcendent, as to 
make it of little consequence what else we have, or 



196 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



what else we want. It is enough for us, it is enough 
for us all ; for him who is poor, for him who is- neg- 
lected, for him who is disappointed and sorrowful ; it 
is enough for him, though there were nothing else, 
that he may be good and happy forever. In compa- 
rison with this, to be rich, to be prosperous, and mere- 
ly that, is the most trifling thing that can be imagined. 
Is it not enough for us, my brethren, that we may 
gain those precious treasures of the soul, which the 
world cannot give nor take away ; that the joys and 
consolations and hopes of the Spirit and Gospel of 
Christ may be ours ? Has not he a sufficiency ; is not 
his heart full ; is not his blessedness complete, who can 
say, " Whom have I in heaven but thee, and there is 
none upon earth that I desire besides thee : all things 
else may fail ; my heart may lose its power, and my 
strength its firmness ; but thou art the strength of my 
heart, and my portion forever." 

The lesson, my friends, which these reflections lay 
before us, is this : to learn that we are all partakers of 
one lot, children of one Father ; to leara in whatso- 
ever state we are, therewith to be content, and therein 
to be grateful. If you are ever tempted to discontent 
and murmuring, ask yourself, ask the Spirit within 
you, formed for happiness, for glory and virtue, of 
what you shall complain. Ask the ten thousand mer- 
cies of your lives, of what you shall complain : or go 
and ask the bounties of nature ; ask the sun that 
shines cheerfully upon you ; ask the beneficent sea- 
sons as they roll, of what you shall complain ; ask — 
ask — of your Maker ; but God forbid that you or I 
should be guilty of the heinous ingratitude ! No, my 
friends, let us fix our thoughts rather, upon the full and 
overflowing beneficence of heaven, upon the love of 
God. Let us fix our affections upon it, and then we 



INEQUALITY OF LOT. 197 

shall have a sufficiency ; then, though some may want 

and others may complain ; though dissatisfaction may 

prey upon the worldly, and envy may corrode the 

hearts of the jealous and discontented ; for us there 

shall be a sufficiency indeed ; for us there shall be a 

treasure which the world cannot give, nor change, nor 

disturb ; " an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled, 

and that fadeth not away." 
17 * 



XIII. 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 

FOR THE CREATURE [that IS TYUM] WAS MADE SUBJECT TO VANITY, [that 13 

to suffering] not willingly, but by reason of him lor at the will of hum 

WHO HATH SUBJECTED THE SAME IN HOPE. — K.OUiaHS Yiii. 20 

In considering the spiritual philosophy of life, we 
cannot avoid the problem of human misery. The re- 
ality presses us on very side, and philosophy demands 
to sit in judgment on the fact. 

I have often wondered that, with such themes as are 
presented to the pulpit, it could ever have been dull ; 
still more that it should be proverbially dull. So prac- 
tical are these themes, so profound, so intimate with all 
human experience, that I cannot conceive, what is to 
be understood, save through utter perversion, fry a dull 
religion, a dull congregation, or a dull pulpit. If there 
were an invading army just landed upon our shores; 
if there were a conflagration or a pestilence sweeping 
through our city, and we were assembled here to con- 
sider what was to be done : in ail seriousness and most 
advisedly do I say, that no questions could be raised, 
on such an occasion, more vital to our welfare, than 
those which present themselves to us here, on every 
Sunday. Take off the covering of outward form and 
demeanour from the heart of society, and what do we 
see ? Is there not a struggle and a war going on : not 
upon our borders, but in the midst of us, in our dwell- 
ings, and in our very souls ; a war, not for territory, 



THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



199 



nor for visible freedom ; but for happiness, for virtue, 
for inward freedom ? Are not misery and vice, as 
they were fire and pestilence, pressing, urging, threat- 
ening to sweep through this city, every day ? Is not 
an interest involved in every day's action, thought, 
purpose, feeling, that is dearer than merchandise, 
pleasure, luxury, condition ; dearer than life itself ? 

Does any one say, that religion is some abstract con- 
cern, some visionary matter, fit only for weak enthu- 
siasts or doting fools ; which has nothing to do with 
him nor with his real welfare ; a thing indifferent, 
gone and given over to indifference, beyond all hope of 
recovery ; in which he cannot, for his life, interest 
himself? Ay, proud philosopher ! or vain worldling ! 
say est thou that ? Is misery something abstract ; 
with which thou canst not interest thyself? Is sin — 
that source of misery : is the wrong thought, the 
wrong deed, the deed folded, muffled in darkness, the 
thought shut up in the secret breast, which neither 
flashing eye nor flushed cheek may tell ; is this, I say, 
something abstract and indifferent ? And is the holy 
peace of conscience, the joy of virtue, a thing for which 
a human being need not, cannot care ? Nay, these 
are the great, invisible, eternal realities of our life, of 
our very nature ! 

I have said that suffering, as the most stupendous 
fact in human experience, as the profoundest problem 
in our religious philosophy, presses us on every side. 
I will not mock you with formal proofs of its existence. 
And do not think either, that on this subject, I will go 
into detail or description. One may easily understand 
human experience, interpret the universal conscious- 
ness too well, to think that either needful or tolerable. 
I will not speak of sicknesses or disappointments or be- 
reavements, many though they are. I will net speak 



200 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



of the minds, more in number than we think, that bear 
the one, solitary, deep- embosomed grief : 

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws, 
In dark shade alike o'er their joys and their woes. 
To which life nothing brighter nor darker can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting. 

I will not speak of the sighing- that rises up from all 
the world, for a happiness unfound. But I point you 
to that which is seldom expressed, to that which lies 
deeper than all, that eternal want ; which lies as a 
heavy residuum at the bottom of the cup of life ; which 
albeit unperceived amidst the Sowings and gushings 
of pleasure, yet when the waters are low, ever disturbs 
that fountain-head, that living cup of joy, with impa- 
tience, anxiety and blind up-heaving effort after some- 
thing good. Yes, the creature, the human being is 
made subject to this. There is a wanting and a want- 
ing, and an ever wanting, of what is never, never on 
earth, to be obtained ! For let us be just here. Re- 
ligion itself does not altogether assuage that feeling ; 
" for even we ourselves," says the Apostle, " groan 
within ourselves." No ; religion itself does not sup- 
press that groan ; though it does show, and therein is 
a most blessed visitation, that it can satisfy that feel- 
ing as nothing else can, and that it has in it, the ele- 
ments for satisfying it fully and infinitely. 

I dwell somewhat upon this point as a matter of 
fact, my brethren, because I conceive that it is one 
office of the preacher, as it is of the poet and philoso- 
pher, to unfold the human heart and nature, more fully 
to itself. Strange as the opinion may be thought, I do 
Xiot believe that men generally know how unhappy, at 
any rate how far from happiness, they are. That stu- 
pendous fact, the soul's misery, is covered up with busi- 
ness, cares, pleasures and vanities. Were human life 



THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



201 



unveiled to its depths ; were the soul, disrobed of all 
overlayings and debarred from all opiates, to come 
down, down to its own naked resources, it seems to me 
at times, that religion would need no other argument. 
With such apprehension at least as I have of this sub- 
ject, I feel obliged to preach, as to some, and not a few, 
who not having taken the religious view of their ex- 
istence, have come to look upon life with a dull and 
saddened eye. I believe there are not a few — it may 
be that they are of the more solitary in the world, and 
who have not as many stirring objects and prospects in 
life as others — who look upon the path that stretches 
before them as cheerless, and threatening to be more 
and more so as it advances ; who say in their silent 
thoughts, " I shall live, perhaps, too long ! I shall live, 
perhaps, till I am neglected, passed by, forgotten ! I 
shall live, possibly, till I am a burden to others and to 
myself ! Oh ! what may my state be before I die !" 

Yes, "the creature was made subject to misery;'' 
and if you will find a rational being, not under that 
law, you must seek him, without the bounds of this 
world. 

To this case then, to this great problem involved in 
human existence, let us give our thoughts this even- 
ing. 

And in the first place, I would say, let not the vast 
amount of happiness in this world, be forgotten in the 
sense of its miseries. 

They who say that this is a miserable world, or that 
this is a miserable life, say not well. It is misanthro- 
py, or a diseased imagination only, that says this. 
Life is liable to misery, but misery is not its very being ; 
it is not a miserable existence. Witness — I know not 
what things to say, or how many. The eye is opened 
to a world of beauty, and to a heaven, all sublimity 



202 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



and loveliness. The ear heareth tones and voices that 
touch the heart with joy, with rapture. The great, 
wide atmosphere, breathes upon us, bathes us with soft- 
ness and fragrance. Then look deeper. How many 
conditions are happy ! Childhood is happy ; and 
youth is prevailingly happy : and prosperity hath its 
joy, and wealth its satisfaction ; and the warm blood 
that flows in the ruddy cheek and sinewy arm of 
honest poverty, is a still better gift. No song is so 
hearty and cheering, none that steals forth from the 
windows of gay saloons, as the song of honest labour 
among the hills and mountains. Oh ! to be a man — 
with the true energies and affections of a man ; all 
men feel it to be good. To be a healthful, strong, 
true-hearted, and loving man ; how much better is it, 
than to be the minion, or master of any condition — 
lord, landgrave, king, or Caesar ! How many affec- 
tions too are happy ; gratitude, generosity, pity, love, 
and the consciousness of being beloved ! And to bow 
the heart, in lowliness and adoration, before the Infi- 
nite, all-blessing, ever-blessed One ; to see in the all- 
surrounding brightness and glory, not beauty and ma- 
jesty only, but the all-Beautiful, all-Majestic, all-Con- 
scious Mind and Spirit of love ; this is to be filled 
with more than created fulness ; it is to be filled with 
all the fulness of God ! 

A world where such things are, a world above all, 
where such a presence is, seemeth to me, a goodly 
world. I look around upon it, I meditate upon it, I feel 
its blessings and beatitudes ; and I say, surely it is a 
world of plenteousness and beauty and gladness, of 
loves and friendships, of blessed homes and holy altars, 
of sacred communions and lofty aspirations and im- 
mortal prospects ; and I remember that He who made 
it, looked upon it, and saw that it was very good. 



THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



203 



And strange it seemeth, indeed, to our earlier con- 
templation of it, that in such a world, and beneath 
the bright skies, there should be the dark stroke of ca- 
lamity — a serpent winding through this Eden of our 
existence. 

But it is here ; and now let us draw nearer, and be- 
hold this wonder beneath the heavens — misery ! 

What is its nature ? What account are we to take 
of it? What are we to think of it? On this point, 
I must pray your attention to something of detail and 
speculation ; though I must be, necessarily, brief. 

What then is the nature of misery ? Is it an evil 
principle, or a good principle in the universe ? Is it 
designed to do us harm, or to do us good ? Doubtless 
the latter ; and this can be shown without any very 
extended or laborious argument. 

Misery then, evidently springs from two causes : 
from the perfection of our nature, and from the imper- 
fection of our treatment of it ; that is, from our igno- 
rance, error, and sin. 

I say, that misery springs, first, from the perfection 
or excellence of our nature. Thus remorse, a pained 
conscience, that greatest, and though half-benumbed, 
most wide-spread of all misery, never would afflict us, 
had we not a moral nature. Make us animals, and 
we should feel nothing of this. So of our intellectual 
nature ; let poor, low instinct take its place, and we 
should never suffer from ignorance, error, or mistake. 
And our very bodies owe many of their sufferings and 
diseases to the delicacy of our nerves, fibres, and sen- 
ses. Gird a man with the mail of leviathan ; arm 
him with hoofs and claws ; and he would have but 
few hurts, diseases, or pains. But now he is clothed 
with these vails of living tissues, with this vesture of 
sensitive feeling, spread all over his frame, that his 



204 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



whole body may be an exquisite instrument of com- 
munication with the whole surrounding universe ; that 
earth, air, sky, waters, all their visions, all their melo- 
dies, may visit his soul through every pore, and every 
sense. In such a frame, suffering evidently is the in- 
cident, not the intent. And then, in fine, if you ask, 
whence comes this ever-craving desire of more, more ; 
more happiness, more good, more of every thing that 
it grasps ; what does this show primarily, but the ex- 
tent of the grasp, the largeness of the capacity, the 
greatness of the nature? That universal sighing, of 
which I have spoken, which is forever saying, " who 
will show me any good T comes not from the dens 
and keeps of animals, but from the dwellings of 
thoughtful, meditative, and immortal men. 

But in the next place, I say, that our misery cometh 
from the imperfection of our treatment of this elevat- 
ed and much-needing nature ; from our ignorance, 
error, and sin. We do not satisfy this nature, and it 
suffers, from vague, ever-craving want. We cannot 
satisfy it, perhaps ; which only the more shows its 
greatness ; but we do not, what we can, to satisfy it. 
We wound it too by transgression, and it groans over 
the abuse. We err perhaps from want of reflection, 
and the consequences teach us wisdom. The child 
that puts his hand in the fire, will not put it there 
again. A cut finger is a brief lesson, a short copy writ 
in blood, to teach discretion. The man is taught to 
transfer that lesson to the whole scene of life. All 
elements, all the laws of things around us, minister to 
this end ; and thus, through the paths of painful error 
and mistake, it is the design of providence to lead us 
to truth and happiness. 

Is then, the principle of misery in this view, an evil 
principle ? If erring but taught us to err ; if mistakes 



THE MISKRIES OF LIFE, 



205 



confirmed us in imprudence ; if the pains of imperfection 
only fastened its bonds upon us, and the miseries of sin 
had a natural tendency to make us its slaves, then 
were all this suffering'. only evil. But the evident truth 
on the contrary is, that it all tends and is designed, to 
produce amendment, improvement. This so clearly 
results from the principles of reason, and is so uniform- 
ly sustained by the testimony of scripture, that I do 
not think it necessary to quote from the one, nor any 
farther to argue from the other. 

Misery then is a beneficent principle in the universe. 
He who subjected the creature to misery, subjected him 
in hope. There is a brightness beyond that dark cloud. 
It is not an inexplicable, unutterable, implacable, dark 
doom, this ministration of misery ; it is meant for good. 
It is meant to be a ministration to virtue and to happi- 
ness. I say, to virtue and happiness. These are the 
specifications of what I mean, when I say that suffer- 
ing is a beneficent principle. It springs from the per- 
fection or excellence of our nature, and thus far cer- 
tainly, all is well with our argument. It springs from 
imperfection in our treatment of it ; but it is designed 
to remove that imperfection ; and still therefore the 
path of our argument, though it lead over desolations 
and ruins, is clear and bright. But still further I say, 
that it is not an abstract argument ; a mere fair theory 
having no foundation in truth and fact. 

I will reason from your own experience. The pain- 
ed thought, the painful feeling in you ; tell me what 
it is, and I will tell you, how it is made to work out 
good for you. Is it ennui, satiety, want? All this 
urges and compels you to seek for action, enlargement, 
supply. Is it that most sad and painful conviction, 
the conviction of deficiency or of sin ? This directly 
teaches you to seek for virtue, improvement; for pardon, 
18 



206 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



and the blessedness of pardon. Is it the sorrow of unre- 
quited affection, or a sighing for friendship, in this 
cold and selfish world too seldom found ? This is an 
occasion for the loftiest generosity, magnanimity and 
candour. Is it sickness or bereavement, the body's 
pain or the heart's desolation ? Fortitude, faith, pa- 
tience, trust in heaven, the hope of heaven ; these are 
so much meant as the end, that, indeed, there are no 
other resources for pain and deprivation. 

And. these happy results, I say, have not failed to be 
produced in the experience of multitudes. It is no 
visionary dreaming of which I have spoken, but a 
matter of fact. Even as Christ was made perfect 
through sufferings, so are his followers. How many 
have said, in their thoughts, when at last the true light 
has broken upon them — " Ah ! it is no contradiction ; 
the dark path does lead to light ; pain is a means of 
pleasure ; misery of happiness ; penitential grief, of 
virtue; loss, deprivation, sorrow, are the elements, or 
rather they are the means, of all that is best in my 
character ; it is fortunate for me that I have suffer- 
ed ; it is good for me that I have been afflicted ; it is 
better, how far better with me now, than if I had 
been always and only happy." 

Nay, and even from that comparison, by which past 
suffering enhances all present and coming enjoyment, 
I could draw an argument almost sufficient for its vin- 
dication in the great scheme of providence. The pains 
of a sick and dying child, are often referred to, as the 
most mysterious things in providence ; but that child, 
it should be remembered, may be, and probably will be, 
happier forever, for that dark cloud that brooded over 
the cradle of its infancy. And for myself I must say, 
that if I were now standing on the verge of a tried life 
with the prospects of everlasting happiness before me, 



THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



207 



T should not regret that I had been a sufferer; I 
should count it all joy rather, and be sure that my 
eternal joy would be dearer for it. 

But this is not, it is true, the chief consideration. 
Suffering is the discipline of virtue, that which nourish- 
es, invigorates, perfects it. Suffering, I repeat, is the 
discipline of virtue ; of that which is infinitely better 
than happiness, and yet which embraces all essential 
happiness in it. Virtue is the prize, of the severely 
contested race, of the hard-fought battle ; and it is 
worth all the strifes and wounds of the conflict. 

This is the view, which we ought, I think, manfully 
and courageously to take of our present condition. 
Partly from our natural weakness, partly from want of 
reflection, and partly from the discouraging aspects 
which infidel philosophy and ascetic superstition, 
have thrown over human life, we have acquired a 
timidity, a pusillanimity, a peevishness, a habit of 
complaining, which enhances all our sorrows. Dark 
enough they are, without needing to be darkened by 
gloomy theories. Enough do we tremble under them, 
without requiring the misgivings of cherished fear and 
weakness. Philosophy, religion, virtue should speak 
to man, not in a voice, all pity, not in a voice, all ter- 
ror ; but rather in that trumpet tone that arouses and 
cheers the warrior to battle. 

With a brave and strong heart should man go forth 
to battle with calamity. He shall not let it be his 
master, but rather shall he master it ; yea, he shall be 
as an artificer, who taketh in his hand an instrument 
to work out some beautiful work. When Sir Walter 
Raleigh took in his hand the axe, that was in a few 
moments to deprive him of life, and felt its keen edge, 
he said, smiling, " this is a sharp medicine, but it will 
cure all diseases." Indeed, the manner in which the 



208 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



brave English Noblemen and Clergy of the olden time 
went to death, even when it was to appease the jealousy 
or wrath of unjust monarchs, is illustrative of the 
spirit I would recommend. Fortitude, manliness, 
cheerfulness, with modesty and humility, dressed them, 
even on the scaffold, in robes of eternal honour. And 
surely he who takes an instrument in his hand, which 
is not to slay him, but with which he may work out 
the model and perfection of every virtue in him, should 
take it with resolution and courage ; should say, 
" with this sore pain or bitter sorrow, is a good and 
noble work for me to do, and well and nobly will I 
strive to do it. I will not blench nor fly from what 
my Father above, has appointed me. I will not drown 
my senses and faculties with opiates to escape it. I 
will not forsake the post of trial and peril." Do you re- 
member that noble boy who stood on the burning deck 
at the battle of the Nile? Many voices around said, 
" come down ! — come away !" But the confiding child 
said, " father, shall I come ?" Alas ! that father's voice 
was hushed in death ; and his child kept his post till 
he sunk in the whelming flame. Oh ! noble child ! 
thou teachest us firmly to stand in our lot, till the great 
word of providence shall bid us fly, or bid us sink ! 

But while I speak thus, think me not insensible to 
the severity of man's sufferings. I know what human 
nerves and sinews and feelings are. When the sharp 
sword enters the very bosom, the iron enters the very 
soul — I see what must follow. I see the uplifted 
hands, the writ hen brow, the written agony in the eye. 
But God's mercy, which " tempers the blast to the 
shorn lamb," does not suffer these to be the ordinary 
and permanent forms of affliction. No, thou sit test 
down in thy still chamber ; and sad memories come 
there ; or it may be, strange trials gather under thy 



THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



209 



brooding thought. Thou art to die; or thy friend 
must die ; or worse still, thy friend is faithless. Or 
thou sayest that coming life is dark and desolate. 
And now as thou sittest there. I will speak to thee ; 
and I say — though sighs will burst from thy almost 
broken heart, yet when they come back in echoes from 
the silent walls, let them teach thee. Let them tell 
thee that God wills not thy destruction, thy suffering 
for its own sake ; wills thee not, cannot will thee, any 
evil ; how could that thought come from the bosom of 
infinite love ! No, let thy sorrows tell thee, that God 
wills th}^ repentance, thy virtue, thy happiness, thy 
preparation for infinite happiness ! Let that thought 
spread holy light through thy darkened chamber. 
That which is against thee, is not as that which is for 
thee. Calamity, a dark speck in thy sky, seemeth to 
be against thee ; but God's goodness, the all-embracing 
light and power of the universe, forever lives, and 
shines around thee and for thee. 

" Evil and good, before him stand 
Their mission to perform." 

The angel of gladness is there ; but the angel of af- 
fliction is there too ; and both alike for good. May 
the angel of gladness visit us as often as is good for 
us ! — I pray for it. But that angel of affliction ! what 
shall we say to it ? Shall we not say, " come thou 
too, when our Father willeth ; come thou, when need 
is ; with saddened brow and pitying eye, come ; and 
take us on thy wings, and bear us up to hope,, to hap- 
piness, to heaven : to that presence where is fulness 
of joy, to that right hand, where are pleasures for 
evermore !" 

There is one further thought which I must not fail 
to submit to you, on this subject, before I leave it. 
The greatness of our sufferings points to a correspond- 
18* 



210 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



ent greatness in the end to be gained. When I see 
what men are suffering around me. I cannot help feel- 
ing that it was meant, not only that they should be far 
better than they are, but far better than they often 
think of being. The end must rise higher and bright- 
er before us, before we can look through this dark 
cloud of human calamity. The struggle, the wounds, 
the carnage and desolation of a battle, would over- 
whelm me with horror, if it were not fought for free- 
dom, for the fireside ; to protect infancy from ruthless 
butchery, and the purity of our homes from brutal 
wrong. So is the battle of this life, a bewildering 
maze of misery and despair, till we see the high prize 
that is set before it. You would not send your son to 
travel through a barren and desolate wilderness, or to 
make a long and tedious voyage to an unhealthy clime, 
but for some great object : say, to make a fortune 
thereby. And any way, it seems to your parental af- 
fection, a strange and almost cruel proceeding. Nor 
would the merciful Father of life, have sent his earthly 
children to struggle through all the sorrows, the pains 
and perils of this world, but to attain to the grandeur 
of a moral fortune, worth all the strife and endurance. 
No, all this is not ordained in vain, nor in reckless in- 
difference to what we suffer ; but for an end, for a 
high end, for an end higher than we think for. 
Troubles, disappointments, afflictions, sorrows, press 
us on every side, that we may rise upward, upward, 
ever upward. And believe me, in thus rising upward, 
you shall find the very names that you give to calami- 
ty, gradually changing. Misery, strictly speaking and 
in its full meaning, does not belong to a good mind. 
Misery shall pass into suffering, and suffering into dis- 
cipline, and discipline into virtue, and virtue into 
heaven. So let it pass with you. Bend now patient- 



THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



211 



ly and meekly, in that lowly " worship of sorrow," till 
in God's time, it become the worship of joy, of propor- 
tionately higher joy ; in that world where there shall 
be no more sorrow nor pain nor crying ; where all tears 
shall be wiped from your eyes ; where beamings of 
heaven in your countenance, shall grow brighter by 
comparison with all the darkness of earth. 

And remember too, that your forerunner into that 
blessed life, passed through this same worship of sor- 
row. A man of sorrows w r as that Divine Master, and 
acquainted with grief. This is the great Sabbath of 
the year* that commemorates his triumph ov 7 er sorrow 
and pain and death. And what were the instruments, 
the means, the ministers of that very victory, that last 
victory ? The rage of men, and the fierceness of tor- 
ture ; the arraignment before enemies — mocking, smit- 
ing, scourging ; the thorny crown, the bitter cross, the 
barred tomb ! With these he fought, through these 
he conquered, and from these he rose to heaven. And 
believe me, in something must every disciple be like 
the master. Clothed in some vesture of pain, of sor- 
row or of affliction, must he fight the great battle and 
win the great victory. When I stand in the presence 
of that high example, I cannot listen to poor, unmanly, 
unchristian complainings. I would not have its dis- 
ciples account too much of their griefs. Rather would 
I say, courage ! ye that bear the great, the sublime lot 
of sorrow ! It is not forever that ye suffer. It is not 
for naught, that ye suffer. It is not without end, that 
ye suffer. God wills it. He spared not his own Son 
from it. God wills it. It is the ordinance of his wis- 
dom for us. Nay, it is the ordinance of Infinite love, 
to procure for us an infinite glory and beatitude. 



* Easter Sunday. 



XIV. 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 

O GOD; THOU HAST TAUGHT ME FROM MY YOUTH.— Psalm lxxi. 17. 

Life is a school. This world is a house of instruc- 
tion. It is not a prison nor a penitentiary, nor a palace 
of ease, nor an amphitheatre for games and spectacles ; 
it is a school. And this view of life is the only one 
that goes to the depths of the philosophy of life : the 
only one that answers the great question, solves the 
great problem of life. For what is life given ? If for 
enjoyment alone, if for suffering merely, it is a chaos 
of contradictions. But if for moral and spiritual learn- 
ing, then everything is full of significance, full of wis- 
dom. And this view too. is of the utmost practical im- 
portance. It immediately presents to us and presses 
upon us the question : what are we learning J And 
is not this, truly, the great question ? When your son 
comes home to you at the annual vacation, it is the 
first question in your thoughts concerning him : and 
you ask him. or you ask for the certificates and testi- 
monials of his teachers, to give you some evidence of 
his learning. At every passing term in the great school 
of life, also, this is the all-important question. "What 
has a man got, from the experience, discipline, oppor- 
tunity of any past period ? Not, what has he gather- 
ed together in the shape of any tangible good : but 
what has he got — in that other and eternal treasure- 



THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



213 



bouse, his mind ! Not, what of outward accomoda- 
tion the literal scholar has had, should we think it 
much worth our while to inquire ; not whether his text 
books had been in splendid bindings ; not whether his 
stadv-table had been of rich cabinet-work, and his 
chair softly cushioned ; not whether the school-house 
m which he had studied, were of majestic size, or 
adorned with columns and porticoes ; let him have got a 
good education, and it would be comparatively of little 
moment, how or where he got it. We should not ask 
what honours he had obtained, but as proofs of his 
progress. Let him have graduated at the most illus- 
trious university, or have gained, through some mis- 
take, its highest distinctions, and still be essentially de- 
ficient in mind or in accomplishment ; and that fatal 
defect would sink into every parents heart, as a heavy 
and unalleviated disappointment. And are such ques- 
tions and considerations any less appropriate to the 
great school of life ; w^hose entire course is an educa- 
tion for virtue, happiness, and heaven? "OGod!" 
exclaims the Psalmist, " thou hast taught me from my 
youth.*' 

Life, I repeat, is a school. The periods of life, are 
its terms : all human conditions are but its forms ; all 
human employments, its lessons. Families are the 
primary departments of this moral education ; the 
various circles of society, its advanced stages ; king- 
doms are its universities ; the world is but the material 
structure, built for the administration of its teachings ; 
and it is lifted up in the heavens and borne through its 
annual circuits, for no end but this. 

Life, I say again, is a school : and all its periods, in- 
fancy, youth, manhood and age, have their appropriate 
tasks in this school. 

With what an early care and wonderful apparatus, 



214 



ON HUMAN LIFE, 



does Providence begin the work of human education ! 
An infant being is cast upon the lap of nature, not to 
be supported or nourished only, but to be instructed. 
The world is its school. All elements around, are its 
teachers. Long ere it is placed on the first form before 
the human master, it has been at school ; insomuch 
that a distinguished statesman has said with equal 
truth and originality, that he had probably obtained 
more ideas by the age of five or six years, than he has 
acquired ever since. And what a wonderful ministra- 
tion is it ! What mighty masters are there for the 
training of infancy, in the powers of surrounding na- 
ture ! With a finer influence than any human dicta- 
tion, they penetrate the secret places of that embryo 
soul, and bring it into life and light. From the soft 
breathings of Spring to the rough blasts of Winter, 
each one pours a blessing upon its favourite child, ex- 
panding its frame for action, or fortifying it for endur- 
ance. You seek for celebrated schools and distin- 
guished teachers for your children ; and it is well. 
Or you cannot afford to give them these advantages, 
and you regret it. But consider what you have. 
Talk we of far-sought and expensive processes of ed- 
ucation ? That infant eye hath its master in the sun ; 
that infant ear is attuned by the melodies and harmo- 
nies of the wide, the boundless creation. The goings 
on of the heavens and the earth, are the courses of 
childhood's lessons. The shows that are painted on 
the dome of the sky and on the uplifted mountains, 
and on the spreading plains and seas, are its pictured 
diagrams. Immensity, infinity, eternity, are its teach- 
ers. The great universe is the shrine, from which 
oracles, oracles by day and by night, are forever utter- 
ed. Well may it be said that " of such of beings so 
cared for, " is the kingdom of heaven." Well and fitly 



THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



215 



is it written of him, who comprehended the wondrous 
birth of humanity and the gracious and sublime provi- 
dence of heaven over it, that " he took little children in 
his arms and blessed them." 

So begins the education of man in the school of life. 
It were easy, did the time permit, to pursue it into its 
successive stages ; into the period of youth, when the 
senses not yet vitiated, are to be refined into grace and 
beauty, and the soul is to be developed into reason and 
virtue ; of manhood, when the strength of the ripened 
passions is to be held under the control of wisdom, and 
the matured energies of the higher nature, are to be 
directed to the accomplishment of worthy and noble 
ends ; of age, which is to finish with dignity, the work 
begun with ardour ; which is to learn patience in 
weakness, to gather up the fruits of experience into 
maxims of wisdom, to cause virtuous activity to sub- 
side into pious contemplation, and to gaze upon the 
visions of heaven, through the parting veils of earth. 

But in the next place, life presents lessons in its 
various pursuits and conditions, in its ordinances and 
events. Riches and poverty, gayeties and sorrows, 
marriages and funerals, the ties of life bound or broken, 
fit and fortunate or untoward and painful, are all lessons. 
They are not only appointments, but they are les- 
sons. They are not things which must be, but things 
which are meant. Events are not blindly and care- 
lessly flung together, in a strange chance-medley : pro- 
vidence is not schooling one man, and another screen- 
ing from the fiery trial of its lessons ; it has no rich 
favourites nor poor victims ; one event happeneth to 
all ; one end, one design, concerneth, urgeth all men. 

Hast thou been prosperous ? Thou hast been at 
school ; that is all ; thou hast been at school Thou 



216 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



thoughtest perhaps, that it was a great thing, and that 
thou wert some great one ; but thou art only just a 
pupil. Thou thoughtest that thou wast master and 
hadst nothing to do but to direct and command ; but I 
tell thee that there is a Master above thee ; the Master 
of life ; and that He looks not at thy splendid state 
nor thy many pretensions ; not at the aids and appli- 
ances of thy learning ; but simply at thy learning. 
As an earthly teacher puts the poor boy and the rich, 
upon the same form, and knows no difference between 
them but their progress ; so it is with thee and thy 
poor neighbour. What then hast thou learnt from 
thy prosperity ? This is the question that I am 
asking, that all men are asking, when any one has 
suddenly grown prosperous, or has been a long 
time so. And I have heard men say in a grave 
tone, " he cannot bear it ! he has become passionate, 
proud, self-sufficient, and disagreeable." Ah ! fallen, 
disgraced man ! even in the world's account. But 
what, I say again, hast thou learnt from prosperity ? 
Moderation, temperance, candour, modesty, gratitude to 
God, generosity to man? Well done, good and faith- 
ful ! thou hast honour with heaven and with men. 
But what, again I say, hast thou learnt from thy pros- 
perity ? Selfishness, self-indulgence and sin ; to forget 
or overlook thy less fortunate fellow ; to forget thy 
God? Then wert thou an unworthy and dishonour- 
ed being, though thou hadst been nursed in the bosom 
of the proudest affluence, or hadst taken thy degrees 
from the lineage of an hundred noble descents ; yes, 
as truly dishonoured, before the eye of heaven, though 
dwelling in splendour and luxury, as if thou wert 
lying, the victim of beggary and vice by the hedge or 
upon the dung-hill. It is the scholar, not the school, at 



THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



217 



which the most ordinary human equity looks ; and let 
us not think that the equity of heaven will look be- 
neath that lofty mark. 

But art thou, to whom I speak, a poor man ? Thou, 
too, art at school. Take care that thou learn, rather 
than complain. Keep thine integrity, thy candour and 
kindness of heart. Beware of envy ; beware of bond- 
age ; keep thy self-respect. The body's toil is nothing. 
Beware of the mind's drudgery and degradation. I do 
not say, be always poor. Better thy condition if thou 
canst. But be more anxious to better thy soul. Be 
willing, while thou art poor, patiently to learn the les- 
sons of poverty ; fortitude, cheerfulness, contentment, 
trust in God. The tasks I know are hard ; depriva- 
tion, toil, the care of children. Thou must wake early : 
thy children, perhaps, will wake thee ; thou canst not 
put them away from thee to a distant nursery. Fret 
not thyself because of this ; but cheerfully address thy- 
self to thy task ; learn patience, calmness, self-com- 
mand, disinterestedness, love. With these the hum- 
blest dwelling may be hallowed, and so made dearer 
and nobler, than the proudest mansion of self-indul- 
gent ease and luxury. But above all things, if thou 
art poor, beware that thou lose not thine independence. 
Cast not thyself, a creature poorer than poor, an indo- 
lent, helpless, despised beggar, on the kindness of 
others. Choose to have God for thy master, rather 
than man. Escape not from his school, either by dis- 
honesty or alms-taking, lest thou fall into that state 
worse than disgrace, where thou shalt have no respect 
for thyself. Thou mayest come out of that school ; 
yet beware that thou come not out as a truant, but as 
a noble scholar. The world itself doth not ask of the 
candidates for its honours, whether they studied in a 
palace or a cottage, but what they have acquired and 
19 



218 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



what they are ; and heaven, let us again be assured, 
will ask no inferior title to its glories and rewards. 

Again, the entire social condition of humanity is a 
school. The ties of society affectingly teach us to love 
one another. A parent, a child, a husband or wife or 
associate without love, is nothing but a cold marble 
image ; or rather a machine, an annoyance, a some- 
thing in the way to vex and pain us. The social re- 
lations not only teach love, but demand it. Show me 
a society, no matter how intelligent, and accomplished 
and refined, but where love is not ; where there is am- 
bition, jealousy and distrust, not simplicity, confidence 
and kindness ; and you show me an unhappy society. 
All will complain of it. Its punctilious decorum, its 
polished insincerity, its " threatening urbanity," gives 
no satisfaction to any of its members. What is the 
difficulty ? What does it want ? I answer, it wants 
love : and if it will not have that, it must suffer ; and 
it ought to suffer. 

But the social state, also powerfully teaches modes- 
ty and meekness. All cannot be great ; and nobody 
may reasonably expect all the world to be engaged 
with lauding his merits. All cannot be great ; and we 
have happily fallen upon times, when none can be dis- 
tinguished as a few have been in the days of semi-bar- 
barous ignorance. All cannot be great ; for then no- 
body were. The mighty mass of human claims 
presses down all individual ambition. Were it not so, 
it were not easy to see where that ambition would 
stop. Well that it be schooled to reason ; and society, 
without knowing it, is an efficient master for that end. 
Is any one vexed and sore under neglect ? Does he 
walk through the street unmarked, and say, that he 
deserves to be saluted oftener and with more respect ? 
Does the pang of envy shoot through his heart, when 



THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



219 



notice is bestowed on others, whom he thinks less 
worthy than he is ? Perhaps, society is unjust to 
him ? What then ? What shall he do ? What can 
he do, but learn humility and patience and quietness ? 
Perhaps the lesson is roughly and unkindly given. 
Then must society, through its very imperfection, 
teach us to be superior to Us opinion : and our care 
must be, not to be cynical and bitter, but gentle 3 
candid and affectionate still. 

Society is doubtless often right in its neglect or its 
condemnation ; but certainly it is sometimes wrong. 
It seems to be the lot, the chance, the fortune, the ac- 
cident of some to be known, admired, and celebrated. 
Adulation and praise are poured out at their feet while 
they live, and upon their tomb when they die. But 
thousands of others intrinsically just as interesting, 
with sentiments that mount as high on earth, and will 
flourish as fair in heaven, live unpraised and die un- 
known. Nay, and the very delicacy of some minds 
forbids their being generally known and appreciated. 
Tact, facility, readiness, conversation, personal recom- 
mendations, manners and connexions, help on some ; 
and all these may be wanting to minds that have none 
the less worth and beauty. Who then would garner 
up his heart in the opinion of this world ? Yet neither 
let us hate it ; but let its imperfection minister to our 
perfection. 

There are also broken ties ; and sometimes the holi- 
est ties wear themselves out ; like imperfect things, 
alas ! as they are. What, then, is to be learnt ? I 
answer, a great lesson. What is to be done ? A great 
duty. To be just ; to be true ; to cherish a divine 
candour ; to make the best of that which seems not 
well ; to pour not vinegar upon the galling chain, but 
the oil of gentleness and forbearance. So shall many 



220 



OX HUM AX LIFE. 



a wound be healed ; and the hearts shall be knit to- 
gether in a better bond than that of hasty impulse : 
the bond of mutual improvement, strengthening mu- 
tual love. 

But not to insist more at large upon the disciplinary 
character of all the conditions of life and society, let us 
consider, for a moment farther, some of its events and 
ordinances. 

Amidst all the gayety and splendour of life there is a 
dark spot ; over its brightest career, there comes a 
sudden and overshadowing cloud : in the midst of its 
loud and restless activity there is a deep pause and an 
awful silence ; what a lesson is death ! — death, that 
stops the warm current and the vital breath, and freezes 
mortal hearts in fear and wonder ; death, that quells 
all human power, and quenches all human pride : 
death, " the dread teacher," the awful admonisher, 
that tells man of this life's frailty, and of a judgment 
to come. "What a lesson is death ! Stern, cold, inex- 
orable, irresistible — the collected might of the would 
cannot stay it, nor ward it off ; the breath that is part- 
ing from the lips of king, or beggar, the breath that 
scarcely stirs the hushed air — that little breath — the 
wealth of empires cannot buy it, nor bring it back for a 
moment. What a lesson is this to proclaim our own 
frailty, and a power beyond us ! It is a fearful lesson : 
it is never familiar. That which lays its hands upon 
all, walks through the earth, as a dread mystery. Its 
mandate falls upon the ear in as fearful accents now, 
as when it said to the first man, " thou shalt die ! dust 
thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." It is a 
universal lesson. It is read everywhere. Its message 
comes every year, every day. The years past are fill- 
ed with its sad and solemn mementos ; and could a 
prophet now stand in the midst of us and announce 



THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



221 



the future ; to more than one of us, would he say, " set 
thy house in order ; for this year thou shalt die." 
Yes, death is a teacher. I have seen upon the wall 
of our school-rooms, the diagram, that sets forth some 
humble theorem ; but what a hand-writing is traced 
by the finger of death upon the walls of every human 
habitation ! And what does it teach ? Duty ; to act 
our part well ; to fulfil the work assigned us. Other 
questions, questions of pride and ambition and plea- 
sure, may press themselves upon a man's life ; but 
when he is dying, when he is dead, there is but one 
question — but one question : has he lived well ? I 
have seen an old man upon his bier ; and I said, " hath 
he done the work of many years faithfully ? hath he 
come to his end like a shock of corn fully ripe ? Then 
all is well. There is no evil in death, but what life 
makes." I have seen one fall amidst life's cares, 
manly or matronly, and when the end came, not like a 
catastrophe, not as unlooked for ; when it came as that 
which had been much thought upon and always pre- 
pared for 5 when I saw the head meekly bowed to the 
visitation or the eye raised in calm bright hope to 
heaven, or when the confidence of long intimate friend- 
ship knows that it would be raised there though the 
kind veil of delirium be spread over it ; I said, " the 
work is done, the victory is gained ; thanks be to God 
who giveth that victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." 
I have seen an infant form, sweetly reposing on its last 
couch, as if death had lost all its terrors, and had be- 
come as one of the cherubim of heaven ; and I said, 
" ah ! how many live so, that they will yet wish that 
they had died, with that innocent child ! " 

Among our Christian ordinances, Brethren, there is 
one that celebrates the victory over death ; and there 
is one, that is appropriate to the beginning of life* 
19* 



222 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



They are both teachers. Baptismal waters, the em- 
blems of a purity received from God and to be watched 
over for God ; the consecration unto obedience to the 
great truths of Christianity; to the doctrine of the 
Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost ; these teach 
us, parents, of a charge to be solemnly kept, of duties 
to be faithfully rendered. The sacramental table ; 
what is it but an altar, set up amidst the realm of death, 
to the hope of everlasting life ? To keep us in mind 
of him who conquered death, and brought life and im- 
mortality to light ; who gave his life a ransom for 
many ; who became a curse for us that we might be 
redeemed from the curse of sin ; who died that we 
might live forever; lo ! these symbols that are set forth 
from time to time in the house of God, in the school 
of Christ ! Touching memorials of pain and sorrow 
and patient endurance ! Blessed omens, on God's altar, 
of peace and forgiveness and glorious victory ! 

Such, my friends, are some of the lessons of the 
school of life. Indulge me in one or two observations 
on the general character of this school, and I shall 
have completed my present design. 

Life is a finely attempered, and at the same time a 
very trying school. 

It is finely attempered ; that is, it is carefully ad- 
justed, in all its arrangements and tasks, to man's pow- 
ers and passions. There is no extravagance in its 
teachings ; nothing is done for the sake of present ef- 
fect. It excites man, but it does not excite him too 
much. Indeed, so carefully adjusted are all things to 
this raging love of excitement, so admirably fitted to 
hold this passion in check, and to attemper all things 
to what man can bear, that I cannot help seeing in 
this feature of life, intrinsic and wonderful evidence of , 
a wise and over-ruling Order. Men often complain 



THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



223 



that life is dull, tame and drudging. But how un- 
wisely were it arranged, if it were all one gala-day of 
enjoyment or transport ! And when men make their 
own schools of too much excitement, their parties, con- 
troversies, associations and enterprises ; how soon do 
the heavy realities of life fasten upon the chariot- 
wheels of success when they are ready to take fire, and 
hold them back to a moderated movement ! 

Everything, I say, is tempered in the system of 
things to which we belong. The human passions, and 
the correspondent powers of impression which man 
possesses, are all kept within certain limits. I think 
sometimes of angel forms on earth ; of a gracefulness 
and beauty more than mortal ; of a flash or a glance 
of the eye in the eloquent man, that should rend and 
inflame a thousand hearts, as lightning does the gnarl- 
ed oak ; but do we not see that for the sensitive frame 
of man, enough excitement is already provided ; that 
the moderated tone of things is all man's ear could 
bear ; the softened and shaded hue, enough for his eye ; 
the expressions of countenance and gesture, such as 
they are, enough for his heart ! Nay, how often is the 
excitement of thought and feeling so great, that but 
for the interruptions of humble cares and trifles — the 
interpositions of a wise providence — the mind and 
frame would sink under them entirely ! It would 
seem delightful, no doubt, in the pilgrimage of life, to 
walk through unending galleries of paintings and 
statues ; but human life is not such ; it is a school. 

It is a trying school. It is a school, very trying to 
faith, to endurance and to endeavour. There are mys- 
teries in it. As to the pupil in a human school, there 
are lessons of which he does not understand the full 
intent and bearing, as he is obliged to take some things 



224 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



on trust ; so it is in the great school of providence. 
There are hard le-ssons to be got in this school. As 
the pupil is often obliged to bend all his faculties to 
the task before him, and tears sometimes fall on the 
page he is studying ; so it is in the school of God's 
providence ; there are hard lessons in it. 

In short, the whole course of human life is a con- 
flict with difficulties ; and if rightly conducted, a pro- 
gress in improvement. In both these respects, man 
holds a position peculiar, and distinct from that of the 
animal races. They are not at school. They never 
improve. With them too, all is facility ; while with 
man comparatively, all is difficulty. Look at the ant- 
hill, or the hive of bees. See how the tenant of the 
one, is provided with feet, so constructed that he can 
run all over his house, outside and inside — no heavy 
and toilsome steps required to go upward or downward ; 
and how the wings of the other, enable him to fly 
through the air, and achieve the journey of days in an 
hour. Man's steps compared with these, are the steps 
of toilsome endeavour. 

Why is this so? Why is man clothed with this 
cumbrous mass of flesh ? Because it is a more per- 
fect instrument for the mind's culture, though that 
end is not to be wrought out without difficulty. Why are 
his steps slow and toilsome ? Because they are the 
steps of improvement. Why is he at school ? That 
he may learn. Why is the lesson hard ? That he 
may rise high on the scale of advancement. 

Nor is it ever too late for him to learn. This is a 
distinct consideration ; but let me dwell a moment 
upon it in close. Nor, I say, is it ever too late for man 
to learn. If any man thinks that his time has gone 
by, let me take leave to contradict that dangerous as- 



THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



225 



sumption. Life is a school ; the whole of life. There 
never conies a time, even amidst the decays of age, 
when it is fit to lay aside the eagerness of acquisition 
or the cheerfulness of endeavour. I protest utterly 
against the common idea of growing old. I hold that 
it is an unchristian, a heathen idea. It may befit 
those who expect to lay down and end their being in 
the grave, but not those who look upon the grave as 
the birth-place of immortality. I look for old age as, 
saving its infirmities, a cheerful and happy time. I 
think that the affections are often full as warm then, 
as they ever are. Well may the affections of piety 
be so ! They are approaching near to the rest that re- 
maineth ; they almost grasp the prize that shall crown 
them ; they are ready to say, with aged Simeon, " now 
let thy servant depart." The battle is almost fought ; 
the victory is near at hand. u Why," — does any one 
still ask — " why does the battle press hard to the very 
end ? Why is it ordained for man that he shall walk, 
all through the course of life, in patience and strife, 
and sometimes in darkness ?" Because from patience 
is to come perfection. Because, from strife, is to come 
triumph. Because, from the dark cloud, is to come the 
lightning-flash, that opens the way to eternity ' 

Christian ! hast thou been faithful in the school of 
life? Art thou faithful to all its lessons? Or hast 
thou, negligent man ! been placed in this great school, 
only to learn nothing, and hast not cared whether thou 
didst learn or not. Have the years passed over thee, 
only to witness thy sloth and indifference ? Hast thou 
been zealous to acquire every thing but virtue, but the 
favour of thy God ? 

But art thou faithful, Christian ? God help thee to 
be yet more so, in years to come. And remember for 



226 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



thine encouragement, what is written. " These things 
saith the first and the last, who was dead and is alive ; 
I know thy works and tribulation and poverty, (but 
thou art rich ;) fear none of those things which thou 
shalt suffer ; be faithful unto death, and I w T ill give thee 
a crown of life." 



XV. 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 

(Preached on New-Tear's day.) 

AND JOB SPAKE AND SAID, LET THE DAY PERISH, WHEREIN I WAS BORN.— 

Job iii. 2—3. 

There is a worldly habit of viewing this life, and 
especially of depreciating its value, against which, in 
this discourse, I wish to contend. It is the view of 
life which many of the heathens entertained, and 
which better became them, than those who hold the 
faith of Christians. " When we reflect," says one of 
the Grecian sages, " on the destiny that awaits man on 
earth, we ought to bedew his cradle with our tears." 
Job's contempt of life, so energetically expressed in the 
chapter from which my text is taken, was of the same 
character. We may observe, however, that Job's con- 
tempt of life, consisted not with the views entertained 
by the children of the ancient dispensation, and was 
emphatically rebuked, in common with all his impious 
complaints,, in the sequel of that affecting story. The 
birth of a child among the Hebrews was hailed with 
joy, and its birth -day was made a festival. 

But there are times and seasons, events and influ- 
ences in life, which awaken in many, sentiments 
similar to those of Job, and which require to be con- 
sidered. 

The sensibility of youth sometimes takes this direc- 
tion. It is true, indeed, that, to the youthful mind, 



228 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



life for a while is filled with brightness and hope. It 
is the promised season of activity and enjoyment, of 
manly independence, of successful business, or of 
glorious ambition ; the season of noble enterprises and 
lofty attainments. There is a time, when the youth- 
ful fancy is kindling with the anticipations of an ideal 
world ; when it is thinking of friendship and honour of 
another sort than those which are commonly found in 
the world ; when its promised mansion is the abode of 
perfect happiness, and its paths as they stretch into life, 
seem to it as the paths that shine brighter and brighter 
forever. 

But over all these glowing expectations, there usual- 
ly comes, sooner or later, a dark eclipse ; and it is in 
the first shock of disappointed hope, before the season 
of youth is yet fully past, that we are probably exposed 
to take the most opposite and disconsolate views of 
life. It is here that we find real, in opposition to fac- 
titious sentimentalism. Before this great shock to 
early hope comes, the sentimental character is apt to 
be affectation, and afterwards it is liable to be misan- 
thropy. But now it is a genuine and ingenuous sor- 
row, at finding life so different from what it expected. 
There is a painful and unwelcome effort to give up 
many cherished habits of thinking about it. The 
mind encounters the chilling selfishness of the world, 
and it feels the miserable insufficiency of the world to 
satisfy its longings after happiness ; and life loses many 
of the bright hues, that had gilded its morning season. 
Indeed, when we take into account the unwonted and 
multiplied cares of this period, the want of that famili- 
arity and habit which renders the ways and manners 
of life easy, the difficulties and embarrassments that 
beset the youthful adventurer, the anxiety about es- 
tablishing a character and taking a place in the world, 



THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



229 



and above all, perhaps, the want of self-discipline ; 
when we take all this into the account, to say nothing 
of the freshness of disappointment, we may w 7 ell doubt 
whether the period of entrance into life, is the happiest, 
though it is commonly looked upon as such. It is not. 
perhaps, till men proceed farther in the way, that they 
are prepared, either rightly to estimate or fully to enjoy 
it. And it is worthy of notice in this connection, that 
those diseases which spring from mental anxiety, are 
accounted, by physicians, to be the most prevalent be- 
tween the ages of twenty and forty. 

Manhood arrives at a conclusion unfavourable to 
life, by a different process. It is not the limited view 
occasioned by disappointment, that brings it to think 
poorly of life ; but it assumes to hold the larger view 
taken by experience and reflection. It professes to 
have proved this life, and found it little worth. It has 
deliberately made up its mind, that life is far more 
miserable than happy. Its employments, it finds, are 
tedious, and its schemes are baffled. Its friendships 
are broken, or its friends are dead. Its pleasures pall 
and its honours fade. Its paths are beaten and fa- 
miliar and dull. It has grasped the good of life ; and 
every thing grasped loses half of its charm ; in the 
hand of possession everything is shrivelled and shrunk 
to insignificance. 

Is this manhood, then, sad or sentimental ? No ; 
farthest possible from it. Sentiment, it holds to be ri- 
diculous ; sadness, absurd. It smiles, in recklessness. 
It is merry, in despite. It sports away a life, not 
worth a nobler thought, or else it wears away a life, 
not worth a nobler aim, than to get tolerably through 
it. This is a worldly manhood ; and no wonder 
that its estimate of the value of existence is low and 
earthly. 

20 



230 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



Poetry has often ministered to a state of mind, loftier 
indeed, but of alike complexion. "Life," says the 
Grecian Pindar, " is the dream of a shadow." 

" What," says the melancholy Kirk White — 

66 What is this passing life ? 
A peevish April day : 
A little sun, a little rain, 
And then night sweeps along the plain, 
And all things fade away." 

The melancholy of Byron is of a darker complex- 
ion ; one might anticipate, indeed, that his misan- 
thropy, as well as gloom, would repel every reader ; 
and yet a critic has observed that this is the very qual- 
ity which has caught and held the ear of the sympa- 
thizing world. If the world does sympathize with it, 
it is time that the Christian preacher should raise his 
voice against it. One may justly feel, indeed, for the 
sufferings as well as perversions of that extraordinary 
mind ; but its skepticism and scorn must not be 
suffered to fling their shadows across the world, with- 
out rebuke or remonstrance. Its sufferings, indeed, are 
a striking proof, which the Christian teacher might well 
adduce, of the tendency of earthly passion and unbelief 
to darken all the way of human life. 

The pulpit, also, I must allow, has fallen, under the 
charge of leaning to the dark side of things. It may 
be said, perhaps, that if its instructions are to have any 
bias, it is expedient that it should lean to the dark side. 
But error or mistake is not to be vindicated by its ex- 
pediency, or its power to affect the mind. And its ex- 
pediency, in fact, if not its power, in this case, is to be 
doubted. Men of reflection and discernment are, and 
ought to be, dissatisfied with disproportionate and ex- 
travagant statements, made with a view to support 
the claims of an ascetic piety, or a cynical morality. 



THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



231 



And one mistake, the preacher may find is to the hear- 
er, an intrenchment strong, against a hundred of his 
arguments. 

It is true, also, that religious men in general, have 
been accustomed to talk gloomily of the present state. 
I do not mean such religious men as the wise and holy 
saints of old. Let the rejoicing apostles, rejoicing in 
the midst of the greatest calamities ; let the mild cheer- 
fulness of their Master, stand as monuments against 
the perversions of later times. It has strangely come 
to be thought a mark of great piety towards God to 
disparage, if not to despise, the state which he has or- 
dained for us ; and the claims of this world have been 
absurdly set up, not in comparison only, but in com- 
petition, with the claims of another ; as if both were 
not parts of one system ; as if a man could not make 
the best of this world and of another at the same 
time ; as if we should learn to think better of other 
works and dispensations of God, by thinking meanly 
of these. Jesus and his apostles did not teach us to 
contemn our present condition. They taught that 
every creature and every appointment of God is good, 
and to be received thankfully. They did not look 
upon life as so much time lost ; they did not regard its 
employments as trifles unworthy of immortal beings ; 
they did not tell their followers to fold their arms as if 
in disdain of their state and species ; but it is evident 
that they looked soberly and cheerfully upon the world, 
as the theatre of worthy action, of exalted usefulness, 
and of rational and innocent enjoyment. 

But I am considering the disparaging views of life ; 
and against these views, whether sentimental, worldly, 
poetical or religious, I must contend. I firmly mam- 
tain, that with all its evils, life is a blessing. There 
is a presumptive argument for this, of the greatest 



232 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



strength. To deny that life is a blessing, is to destroy 
the very basis of all religion, natural and revealed ; 
and the argument I am engaged upon therefore, well 
deserves attention. For the very foundation of all re- 
ligion, is laid in the belief that God is good. But if 
life is an evil and a curse, there can be no such belief, 
rationally entertained. The Scriptures do not prove, 
nor pretend to prove, that God is good. They assume 
that truth as already certain. But what makes it cer- 
tain ? Where does, or can the proof come from ? Ob- 
viously, from this world, and from nowhere else. No- 
where else can our knowledge extend, to gather proof. 
Nay more, I say, the proof must come from this life, 
and from nothing else. For it avails not, if life itself 
is doomed to be unhappy — it avails not to the argu- 
ment to say that this world is fair and glorious. It 
avails not to say that this outward frame of things, 
this vast habitation of life, is beautiful. The archi- 
tecture of an Infirmary may be beautiful, and the 
towers of a prison may be built on the grandest scale 
of architectural magnificence ; but it would little avail 
the victims of sickness or bondage. And so if this 
life is a doomed life, doomed by its very conditions to 
sufferings far greater than its pleasures ; if it is a curse 
and not a blessing ; if sighs and groans must rise from 
it, more frequent and loud, than voices of joy and glad- 
ness, it w 7 ill avail but little that heaven spreads its 
majestic dome over our misery ; that the mountain 
walls, which echo our griefs, are clothed with grandeur 
and might ; or that the earth, which bears the burthen 
of our woes, is paved with granite and marble, or cover- 
ed with verdure and beauty. 

Let him then, who says that this life is not a bless- 
ing ; let him who levels his satire at humanity and hu- 
man existence, as mean and contemptible ; let him 



THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



233 



who with the philosophic pride of a Voltaire or a Gib- 
bon looks upon this world as the habitation of a 
miserable race, fit only for mockery and scorn, or who 
with the religious melancholy of Thomas a Kempis 
or of Brainard, overshadows this world with the gloom 
of his imagination, till it seems a dungeon or a prison, 
which has no blessing to offer but escape from it ; let 
all such consider that they are extinguishing the primal 
light of faith and hope and happiness. If life is not a 
blessing, if the world is not a goodly world, if resi- 
dence in it is not a favoured condition, then religion 
has lost its basis, truth its foundation in the goodness 
of God : then it matters not what else is true or not 
true ; speculation is vain and faith is vain : and all 
that pertains to man's highest being, is whelmed in the 
ruins of misanthropy, melancholy and despair. 

The argument in this view is well deserving of at 
tention. Considered as a merely speculative point, it 
is nevertheless one on which every thing hangs. And 
this indeed is the consideration which I have been 
stating : that the whole superstructure of religious 
truth is based upon this foundation truth — that life 
is a blessing. 

And that this is not a mere assumption, I infer in the 
next place, from experience. And there are two points 
in this experience to be noticed. First, the love of life 
proves it is a blessing. If it is not, why are men so 
attached to it? Will it be said, that it is "the dread 
of something after death," that binds man to life ? But 
make the case a fair one for the argument : say, for in- 
stance, that the souls of men sleep, after death, till the 
resurrection ; and would not almost every man rather 
live on, during the intermediate space, than to sink to 
that temporary oblivion ? 

But to refer in the next place to a consideration still 
20* 



234 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



plainer and less embarrassed ; why are we so attached 
to our local situation in life, to our home, to the spot 
that gave us birth, or to any place, no matter how un- 
sightly or barren, — though it were the rudest moun- 
tain or rock, — on which the history of years had been 
written ? Will it be said, that it is habit which endears 
our residence ? But what kind of habit ? A habit of 
being miserable ? The question needs no reply. Will 
you refer me to the pathetic story of the aged prisoner 
of the Bastile, who, on being released and coming 
forth into the world, desired to return to his prison ; 
and argue from this, that a man may learn to love, 
even, the glooms of a dungeon, provided they become 
habitual ? But why did that aged prisoner desire to 
return ? It was not because he loved the cold shadow 
of his prison-walls : but it was, as the story informs us, 
because his friends were gone from the earth ; it was 
because no living creature knew him, that the world 
was darker to him, than the gloomy dungeons of the 
Bastile. It shows how dear are the ties of kindred 
and society. It shows how strong and how sweet are 
those social affections, which we never appreciate, till 
we are cut off from their joys ; which glide from heart 
to heart, as the sunbeams pass unobserved, in the day- 
light of prosperity ; but if a ray of that social kind- 
ness visits the prison of our sickness and affliction, it 
comes to us like a beam of heaven. And though we 
had worn out a life in confinement, we go back again 
to meet that beam of heaven, the smile of society ; 
and if we do not find it, we had rather return to the 
silent walls that know us, than to dwell in a world that 
knows us not. 

" But after all, and as a matter of fact, how many 
miseries," it may be said, " are bound up with this life, 
too deeply interwoven with it, and too keenly felt, to 



THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



235 



allow it to be called a favoured and happy life ! Besides 
evils of common occurrence and account, besides sick- 
ness and pain and poverty, besides disappointment and 
bereavement and sorrow, how many evils are there that 
are not embraced in the common estimate ; evils that 
are secret and silent, that dwell deep in the recesses of 
life, that do not come forth to draw the public gaze or 
to awaken the public sympathy ! How many are there 
who never tell their grief : how many who spread a 
fair and smiling exterior over an aching heart ! " 

Alas ! it is but too easy to make out a strong state- 
ment : and yet the very strength of the statement, the 
strong feeling, at least, with which it is made, disproves 
the cynical argument. The truth is. and it is obvious, 
that misery makes a greater impression upon us. than 
happiness. Why ? Because, misery is not the habit 
of our minds. It is a strange and unwonted guest, and 
we are more conscious of its presence. Happiness — not 
to speak now of any very high quality or entirely satis- 
fying state of mind, but only of a general easiness, 
cheerfulness and comfort — happiness. I say. dwells with 
us, and we forget it : it does not excite us : it does not 
disturb the order and course of oar thoughts. All our 
impressions about affliction, on the other hand, show 
that it is more rare, and at the same time, more re- 
garded. It creates a sensation and stir in the world. 
"When death enters among us, it spreads a groan 
through oiii' dwellings ; it clothes them with unwonted 
and sympathizing grief. Thus, afflictions are like 
epochs in life. We remember them as we do the storm 
and earthquake, because they are out of the common 
course of things. They stand like disastrous events in 
a table of chronology, recorded because they are extra- 
ordinary : and with whole periods of prosperity be- 
tween. Thus do we mark out and signalize the times 



236 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



of calamity ; but how many happy days pass ; unnot- 
ed periods in the table of life's chronology ; unrecorded 
either in the book of memory or in the scanty annals 
of our thanksgiving ? How many happy months are 
swept beneath the silent wing of time, and leave no 
name nor record in our hearts ! How little are we able, 
much as we may be disposed, to call up from the dim 
remembrances of the year that is just ended, the peace- 
ful moments, the easy sensations, the bright thoughts, 
the movements of kind and blessed affections, in which 
life has flowed on, bearing us almost unconsciously 
upon its bosom, because it has borne us calmly and 
gently ! Sweet moments of quietness and affection ! 
glad hours of joy and hope ! days, ye many days be- 
gun and ended in health and happiness ! times and 
seasons of heaven's gracious beneficence ! stand before 
us yet again, in the light of memory, and command 
us to be thankful and to prize as we ought, the gift 
of life. 

But, my brethren, I must not content myself with a 
bare defence of life as against a skeptical or cynical 
spirit, or as against the errors and mistakes of religion. 
I must not content myself with a view of the palpable 
and acknowledged blessings of life. Life is more than 
what is palpable, or often acknowledged. I contend 
against the cynical and the superstitious disparage- 
ment of life, not alone as wrong and as fatal indeed to 
all religion ; but I contend against it as fatal to the 
highest improvement of life. I say, that life is not 
only good, but that it was made to be glorious. Ay, 
and it has been glorious in the experience of millions. 
The glory of all human virtue arrays it. The glory 
of sanctity and beneficence and heroism is upon it. 
The crown of a thousand martyrdoms is upon its 
brow. 



THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



237 



Through this visible and sometimes darkened life, 
it was intended that the brightness of the soul should 
shine ; and that it should shine through all its sur- 
rounding cares and labours. The humblest life which 
any one of us leads may be what has been expressively 
denominated " the life of God in the soul.' 7 ' It may 
hold a felt connection with its infinite source. It may 
derive an inexpressible sublimity from that connection. 
Yes, my Brethren, there may be something of God in 
our daily life ; something of might in this frail inner 
man ; something of immortality in this momentary 
and transient being. 

This mind — I survey it with awe, with wonder — 
encompassed with flesh, fenced around with barriers of 
sense ; yet it breaks every bound, and stretches away, 
on every side, into infinity. It is not upon the line 
only of its eternal duration, that it goes forth, forth 
from this day of its new annual period, through the 
periods of immortality ; but its thoughts, like diverging 
rays, spread themselves abroad and far, far into the 
boundless, the immeasurable, the infinite. And these 
diverging rays may be like cords to lift up to heaven. 
What a glorious thing, then, is this life ! To know its 
wonderful Author ; to bring down wisdom from the 
eternal stars ; to bear upward its homage, its grati- 
tude, its love to the Ruler of all worlds ; what glory in 
the created universe is there, surpassing this ? " Thou 
crownest it, says the Psalmist, thou crownest it with 
glory and honour ; thou hast made it a little lower than 
the angelic life." 

Am I asked, then, what is life ? 1 say, in answer, 
that it is good. God saw and pronounced that it was 
good, when he made it. Man feels that it is good 
when he preserves it. It is good in the unnumbered 
sources of happiness around it. It is good in the ten 



238 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



thousand buoyant and happy affections within it. It 
is good in its connection with infinite goodness, and in 
its hope of infinite glory beyond it. True, our life is 
frail in its earthly state, and it has often bowed down 
with earthly burthens ; but still it endures and revives 
and flourishes ; still it is redeemed from destruction, 
and crowned with loving kindness and tender mercy. 
Frail too, and yet strong is it, in its heavenly nature. 
The immortal is clothed with mortality; and the in- 
corruptible with corruption. It is like an instrument 
formed for heavenly melody ; whose materials were 
taken indeed, from the mouldering and unsightly fo- 
rest ; but lo ! the hand of the artificer has been upon 
it ; it is curiously wrought ; it is fearfully and wonder- 
fully made ; it is fashioned for every tone of gladness 
and triumph. It may be relaxed, but it can be strung 
again. It may send forth a mournful strain ; but it is 
formed also for the music of heavenly joy. Even its 
sadness is " pleasing and mournful to the soul." Even 
suffering is hallowed and dear. Life has that value, 
that even misery cannot destroy it. It neutralizes 
grief, and makes it a source of deep and sacred inte- 
rest. Ah ! holy hours of suffering and sorrow ; hours 
of communion with the great and triumphant Sufferer; 
who that has passed through your silent moments of 
prayer and resignation and trust, would give you up, 
for all the brightness of prosperity ? 

Am I still asked what is life? I answer, that it is 
a great and sublime gift. Those felicitations with 
which this renewed season of it is welcomed, are but 
a fit tribute to its value, and to the gladness which be- 
longs to it. " Happy," says the general voice, " happy 
New-Year ! " to all who live to see it. Life is felt to 
be a great and gracious boon, by all who enjoy its 
light ; and this is not too much felt. It is the wonder- 



THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



239 



ful creation of God ; and it cannot be too much ad- 
mired. It is light sprung from void darkness ; it is 
power waked from inertness and impotence ; it is being 
created from nothing ; well may the contrast enkin- 
dle wonder and delight. It is a stream from the infi- 
nite and overflowing goodness ; and from its first gush- 
ing forth to its mingling with the ocean of eternity, 
that goodness attends it. Yes : life, despite of all that 
cynics or sentimentalists say, is a great and glorious 
gift There is gladness in its infant voices. There is 
joy in the buoyant step of its youth. There is deep 
satisfaction in its strong maturity. There is holy 
peace in its quiet age. There is good for the good ; 
there is virtue for the faithful ; there is victory for the 
valiant. There is spirituality for the spiritual ; and, 
there is, even in this humble life, an infinity for the 
boundless in desire. There are blessings upon its 
birth ; there is hope in its death ; and there is — to 
consummate all — there is eternity in its prospect. 

As I have discoursed upon this theme, it is possible 
that some may have thought that it has nothing to do 
with religion ; that it is a subject merely for fine sen- 
timents and for nothing more. Let me tell such a 
thinker that this subject has not only much to do with 
religion every way, but that it furnishes, in fact, a test 
of our religion. To the low-minded, debased and sen- 
sual, this life must, doubtless, be something very poor, 
indifferent and common-place ; it must be a beaten 
path, a dull scene, shut in on every side, by the earth- 
ly, palpable, and gross. But break down the barriers 
of sense ; open the windows of faith ; fling wide the 
gates that darken the sensual world, and let the light 
of heaven pour in upon it : and then what is this life ? 
How changed is it ! how new ! a new heavens, indeed, 
and a new earth. Yes, this earth which binds one 



240 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



man in chains, is to the other, the starting place, the 
goal of immortality. This earth which buries one 
man in the rubbish of dull cares and wearying vani- 
ties, is to the other, the lofty mount of meditation, 
w 7 here heaven and infinity and eternity are spread be- 
fore him and around him. Yes, my friend, the life 
thou leadest, the life thou thinkest of, is the interpreter 
of thine inward being. Such as life is to thee, such 
thou art. If it is low and mean, and base, if it is a 
mere money-getting or pleasure-seeking or honour-crav- 
ing life, so art thou. Be thou lofty-minded, pure and 
holy ; and life shall be to thee the beginning of hea- 
ven, the threshold of immortality. 



XVI. 



LIFE'S CONSOLATIONS IN VIEW OF DEATH. 

JESUS SAID UNTO HER, I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE. — JollD. xi. 25 

These words, my brethren, so stupendous in their 
import, so majestic in their tone ; when and where 
were they uttered ? They were uttered in a world of 
the dying : in a world which is the tomb of all past 
generations ; in a world from whose dreary caverns, 
from whose dark catacombs, and alike from whose 
proud mausoleums and towering pyramids, no word 
ever issued that spake of any thing but death. They 
were uttered in an hour, when bereavement, dimmed 
with tears and fainting with sorrow, was sighing for 
help more than human. 

It was at Bethany. You remember the affecting 
story of Mary, and Martha her sister, and of Lazarus 
their brother. So simply and truly is it told, that it 
seems as if it were the relation of what had taken 
place in any village around us. " Now a certain man, 
named Lazarus of Bethany, was sick.* 7 How does 
such an event, when it becomes sufficiently marked 
with peril to attract attention, spread anxiety and ap- 
prehension through a whole neighbourhood. Life paus- 
es, and is suspended on the result. " Lazarus was 
sick." What fears, watchings, and agonies of solici- 
tude, hover around the sick man's couch ; none but 
the inmates of his dwelling can know. It was in such 
an emergency that Mary and Martha, fearful and trou- 
21 



242 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



bled, sent a message to their chief comforter and friend, 
saying, " behold, he whom thou lovest, is sick." Je- 
sus, for reasons perhaps beyond our knowledge, does 
not immediately answer the call of distress. He re- 
mains two days in the same place. Then the dreaded 
event had taken place ; all was over ; and he calmly 
says to his disciples, " our friend Lazarus sleepeth." 
So does he contemplate death, not as a dread catas- 
trophe, but as a quiet sleep ; a sacred repose, succeed- 
ing the weary and troubled day of life. Beautifully 
says our great dramatist, 

" After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." 

But so does it not appear to the bereaved and sorrow- 
ing sisters. They are plunged into the deepest dis- 
tress. It is a time of mourning in that still and deso- 
late house at Bethany. The dead is buried ; but grief 
lives, and the hours pass in silent agony. The sym- 
pathizing neighbours from the village are still there ; 
and many friends from Jerusalem are with the afflict- 
ed sisters to comfort them concerning their brother. 

At length, the Master approaches. Martha, ever 
more alert and attentive to what is passing, first hear- 
ing- of it. ^oes forth to meet him. Soon however she 
returns, and says to Mary, her sister, secretly, gives 
her a private intimation — how much passes in the 
dumb show, in whispers, where deep grief is ! — she says, 
in a low tone, " the Master is come, and calleth for 
thee. And as soon as she heard that, she arose 
quickly and came unto him." The language of both 
when they met him is the same, turns upon the same 
point : " Lord, if thou hadst been here, our brother had 
not died." What natural and living truth is there, in 
this simple trait of feeling ! How natural is it for the 
bereaved to think that if this or that had been done ; 



life's consolations. 



243 



if this or that physician had been called ; if some other 
course had been adopted, or some other plan or clime 
had favoured, the blow might have been averted. The 
thoughts all shrink from the awful certainty, revert to 
the possibility of its having been avoided ; and catch 
at all possible suppositions to find relief. But the 
awful certainty nevertheless overwhelmed the mourn- 
ing sisters ; " the end had come ; their brother was 
dead — was dead ! no help now ; no change to come 
over that still sleep ;" so mourned they ; and Jesus 
beholding their distress, groaned in spirit and was 
troubled. " Jesus wept." He was not one, who, with 
cold philosophy or misplaced rapture in his counte- 
nance, looked on bereavement and agony — looked on 
death. He was not one who forbade tears and sor- 
rows. He was not one who approached the grave with 
an air of triumph, though he had gained a victory over 
it ; but it is written, that " again groaning within him- 
self, he came to the grave." No, humanity shudders, 
and trembles, and groans when it comes there ; and 
may not, by any true religion, be denied these testimo- 
nies to its frailty. 

But still there were words of soothing and comfort 
uttered by our Saviour on this occasion ; and let us 
now turn to them and consider their import. " Martha 
said to Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother 
had not died. But I know that even now, whatsoever 
thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee. Jesus saith 
unto her, thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith 
unto him, I know he shall rise again in the resurrec- 
tion, at the last day." She had probably heard the 
doctrine of a future life from himself; but alas ! that 
life seems far off ; dim shadows spread themselves over 
the everlasting fields ; they seem unreal to a per- 
son of Martha's turn of mind ; she wants her brother 



244 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



again as he was but now by her side ; she entertains 
some hope that Jesus will restore him ; she says, "even 
now, I know that whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, 
God will give it thee.*' Jesus does not reply to this 
suggestion ; he does not tell her whether her brother 
shall immediately come back to her ; but utters him- 
seh in a more general and a grander truth. " I am 
the resurrection and the life ; he that believe th in me, 
though he were dead, yet shall he live ; and whoso- 
ever liveth and believeth in me shall never die ; be- 
lievest thou this ?" As if he had said, be not too 
curious nor anxious in your thoughts, but confide, Mar- 
tha, in me. You believe in a future resurrection, 
or renewal of life ; you hope for the immediate resur- 
rection of your brother : but be satisfied with this, " I 
am the Resurrection ;" all that resurrection, renewal 
of life, heavenly happiness means, is embodied, con- 
summated, fulfilled in me. Nay, it is not some future 
return to being of which I speak ; he that liveth and 
believeth in me, shall never die. Already, he hath 
begun to live immortally. Death is for the body ; but 
for that soul, no death. Its affections are in their very 
nature immortal ; and have in them the very elements 
of undecaying happiness. 

Let us attend a moment to the two parts of this in- 
struction ; what our Saviour uttered as already the 
belief of Martha ; and what he added in the em- 
phatic declaration, " I am the Resurrection and the 
Life." 

" Thy brother shall live again" — thy brother ! Not 
some undefined spirituality, not some new and strange 
being shall go forth beyond the mortal bourne ; but 
life — life, in its character, its affections, its spiritual 
identity, such as it is here ; thy brother shall rise 
again." He is not lost to thee : he shall not be so 



life's consolations. 



245 



spiritually changed as to be forever lost to thee. On 
some other shore — as if he had only gone to another 
hemisphere, instead of another world ; on some other 
shore, thou shalt find him again — find thy brother. 
Thus much must have been taught, or there had been 
no pertinency, no comfort in the teaching. To have 
only said that in the eternal revolutions and metamor- 
phoses of being, life, existence should in some sense be 
continued, or that all souls should be re-absorbed into 
the Parent Soul, would have been nothing, to this 
mourning sister. Without conscious identity, indeed, 
without continued existence, a future life has no intelli- 
gible meaning.; and certainly without it, there could 
be no such thin? as reward or retribution. And since 
the social element is an essential part of our nature, 
that element must be found in a nature which is the 
same : and that being so, to suppose that friends 
should meet and commune together, without recog- 
nition, is as absurd, as it would be unsatisfactory. 
Most clearly — to confine ourselves to the case before 
us — such a promise of future existence, that is, of a 
vague, indefinite, unremembering existence, would be 
no comfort to sorrowing friendship. To individual ex- 
pectation it would be something, but to bereaved af- 
fection, nothing. It is to such sorrow, one of the bit- 
terest in this world — that of a sister left alone in the 
world — that Jesus speaks ; and he says, " thy brother 
shall live again.' 

" Thy brother shall live again." What words are 
these to be uttered — amidst the wrecks of time, the 
memorials of buried nations, the earth-mounds swell- 
ing far and wide above the silent dust of all that 
has ever lived and breathed in the visible creation ! 
Whence comes such stupendous, such amazing words 
as these ? From beyond the regions of all visible life, 
21* 



246 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



they come. From the dark earth beneath us, no voice 
issues ; from the shining walls of heaven, no angel 
forms beckon us. Silence, dust, death are here ; no 
more : the earth entombs us, the heavens crush us, till 
those words come to us, heaven-sent, from the great 
realm of invisible life. O blessed revelation ! Life 
there is for us, somewhere ; I ask not where. I can 
wait God's time for that. Blessed fields there are some- 
where in the great embosoming universe of God, that 
stretch onward and onward forever, and the happy 
walk there. There shall we find our lost ones, and be 
with them evermore. " Father," said our Saviour 
when he was about to depart, " I will that they whom 
thou hast given me, be with me, where I am." Shall 
that prayer be answered ? Then shall there be a glo- 
rious fellowship of good men with Jesus and with one 
another. Are we not sometimes w T hen w 7 e think of 
this, like Paul, " in a strait between tw T o" — between 
the claims of friendship on earth and of friendship in 
heaven, — and ready to say, " for us it is better to de- 
part and be w T ith Christ?" Are we not ready to 
say, as the disciples did of Lazarus — when our be- 
loved ones are gone from us — " let us go and die with 
them T 

And then in addition to this inexpressible comfort and 
hope, what is it that our Saviour so emphatically says 
to Martha? "I am the Resurrection and the Life." 
Something in addition, we may well suppose it must 
be. And I understand it to be this : He that believeth 
on me, that is, receiveth me — hath the spirit, the spirit- 
ual life that is in me, the same love of God, the same 
trust in God, is already living an immortal life. He 
shall never die. That in him which partakes of my 
inward life, shall never die. It is essentially immor- 
tal, and immortally blessed ; and no dark eclipse shall 



life's consolation. 



247 



come over it. between death and the resurrection, to 
bury it in the gloom of utter unconsciousness, or to 
cause it to wander like a shadow in the dim realms of 
an intermediate state. " I am the Resurrection. Thy 
brother who hath part in me, lives now, as truly as I 
live." As he says in another place, " I am the bread of 
life ; he that eateth me, even he shall live through me 
so he says, " I am the Resurrection and the Life ; and 
to him that is partner and partaker with me, belongeth 
not death, but only resurrection, continued life, life 
everlasting." 

Let us now proceed to consider one or two further 
grounds for consolation that are suggested by this 
teaching of our Saviour. 

That which he especially proposes to his bereaved 
friends at Bethany, is faith in him. It was a faith in 
him as the Saviour of the world, as one who was com- 
missioned to bring life and immortality clearly to light, 
as one who through his own death and resurrection 
should open the way to heaven. But we should not 
do justice to this sentiment of faith, if we did not 
regard it as something more than any mere view of 
him as Saviour ; if we did not regard it as the most 
intimate participation of the spiritual life that was in 
him. That participation embraces, doubtless, general 
purity of heart and life, a humble resignation to God's 
will, a thoughtful consideration of the wise purposes 
and necessary uses of affliction ; bat especially it em- 
braces as the sum and source of all, the love of God. 
Faith in Christ, is nothing more emphatically than it is 
the love of God, his Father. Upon nothing does he 
more earnestly insist, and upon this he especially in- 
sists as the pledge and the test of fidelity to him. 

To this, then, let me particularly direct your atten- 



248 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



tion as the most essential part of that faith which is to 
comfort us. 

It is the love of God only that can produce a just 
sense of his love to us. It is only a deep and true sense 
of his love to us, that can assuage the wounds of our 
affliction. This results from the very nature of things. 
It is not a technical dogma, but a living and practical 
truth. It is not a truth merely for certain persons 
called Christians, who are supposed to understand 
this language ; but it is a truth for all men. We 
suffer under the government of God. It is his will 
that has appointed to us change, trial, bereavement, 
sorrow, death. The dispensation therefore will be 
coloured to us throughout — it will be darkened or 
brightened all over, by our views of its great Ordainer. 
Ah ! it is a doubt liere ; it is some distrust or difficulty 7 
or want of vital faith on this point, that often adds the 
bitterest sting to human affliction. When all is well 
with us, we can say that God is good, and think that 
we have some love to him ; but when the blow of ca- 
lamity or death falls upon our dearest possessions, 
strikes down innocent childhood, or lovely youth, or 
the needed maturity of all human virtue or source of 
all earthly help and comfort — strikes from our side, 
that which we could least of all spare ; oh ! it seems 
to us a cruel, cruel blow ! — and we say T perhaps, in our 
distracted thoughts, u is God good, to inflict it upon us. 
He could have saved, and he did not ; he would not. 
Why would he not ? Does he love us ; and yet afflict 
us so? — yet crush us, break us down ? and blight all 
our hopes ? Is this a loving dispensation V 

My friends, there is but one remedy for all this ; the 
love, the true, pure, childlike love of God : such love 
and trust as Jesus felt * even as he, the smitten, af- 



9 

life's consolation. 249 



flicted. cast down, betrayed, crucified ; who was urged 3 
in the extremity of his sorrow to say, " Father, if it be 
possible, remove this cup from me yet immediately 
added. " Father, not my will, but thine be done." This 
is our example. This is our only salvation. Nothing 
but this love of God. can yield us comfort. If there is 
no ground for this, then there is no place for consola- 
tion in the universe. There may be enduring, there 
may be forgetting : but there can be no consolation. 
If there is ground for this love and trust, who in the 
day of trouble will not pray God to breathe it into his 
broken heart ? 

I have said that doubt, distrust, want of faith, is our 
difficulty. And yet. how con we doubt ? How can the 
Infinite Being be any thing but good J What motive, 
what reason, what possibility I had almost said, can 
there be to Infinite power, Infinite sufficiency, to be any 
thing but good ? How can we — except it be in some 
momentary paroxysm of grief — how, I say, can we 
doubt ? How doubt, beneath these shining heavens ; 
amidst the riches, the plenitude, the brightness and 
beauty of the whole creation : with capacities of 
thought, of improvement, of happiness in ourselves 
that almost transcend expression : nay, and with sor- 
rows too. that proclaim the loss of objects so inexpres- 
sibly dear ! Whence but from love in God, could have 
come a love in us so intense, so transporting, so full of 
joy and blessedness : nay. and so full too of pain and 
anguish ? No ! such a love in me assures me that it 
had its origin in love. Could the Being who made rne 
intelligent, have been himself without intelligence? 
Nor could the Being want love, who has made me so 
to love, so to sorrow for what I love. By my very sor- 
rows, then, I know that God loves rne : I say not 
whether with approbation, but with an infinite kind- 



250 



OX HUMAN LIFE. 



« 



ness, as infinite pity. What / need is. but to feel it, 
to pray for that feeling, to meditate upon all. that 
should bring that feeling into my heart ; to take re- 
fuge amidst my sorrows, in the assurance that God 
lores me : that he does not willingly grieve or afflict 
me : that he chastens me for my profiting : that he 
could not show so much love for me. by leaving me 
unchastened, untried, undisciplined. "We have had 
fathers of our flesh who chastened us" — put us to 
tasks, trials, griefs ; "and we gave them reverence'* — 
felt, amidst all. that they were good. ' : Shall we not 
much rather be in subjection to the Father of our spi- 
rits and live V Great is the faith that must save us. 
It is a faith in the Infinite : a faith in the Infinite love 
of God ! 

From this faith arises another ground of consola- 
tion. It is, not only that all is well ; but that in the 
great order of things, that which particularly concerns 
us — enters into our peculiar suffering, is well. Our 
case, perhaps, is bereavement, heavy and sorrowful be- 
reavement. Is it a messenger of wrath ? Is any one 
of its circumstances, of its peculiarities — so poignant 
and piercing to us — an indication of divine anger ? 
Awful thought ! Immitigable calamity, if it were so ! 
But no ; it is appointed in love. Can God do any 
thing for angers sake ? To me. it were not God. of 
whom this could be said. Let it be, that a bad man 
has died. Has God made him die. because he hated 
him ? I believe it not. If he has lost his being. I be- 
lieve that it is well that he has lost it. If he has gone to 
retribution, I believe it is well that he has gone to that 
retribution ; that nothing could be better for him. being 
what it is. If / were that unhappy being. I would say, 
"let me be in the hands of the infinitely good God, 
rather than any where else." But if it is a good being 



ltfe's consolation. 



251 



that has gone from me, an innocent child, or one cloth- 
ed with every lovely virtue, one whom Jesus loved as 
he loved the dear brother in Bethany ; to what joys 
unspeakable has that being gone ! In the bosom of 
God, in the bosom of infinite love, all with him is well. 
Could that departed one speak to us, that lovely and 
loving one, invested with the radiance and surrounded 
with the bliss of some heavenly land ; would not the 
language be — " mourn not for me, or mourn not as 
having no hope. Dishonour not the good and blessed 
One, my Father and your Father, by any distrust or 
doubt. Mourn for me, remember me, as I too remem- 
ber you, long for you ; but mourn with humble pa- 
tience and calm sustaining faith." 

How is it with us, my brethren, in this world ? and 
what, in contemplation of death, would we say to 
those that we shall leave behind us ? " Grieve not for 
me," would not one say? — or "grieve not too much, 
when I am gone. I cannot bear that you should suf- 
fer that awful agony, that desolating sorrow, that is 
often seen in the house of mourning. Remembered I 
would be ; oh ! let me have a memorial in some liv- 
ing, affectionate hearts ! I would never be forgotten ; 
I would never have it felt that the tie with me is 
broken : but let the memory of me be calm, patient, 
sacred, gently sorrowing if need be, but yet ever par- 
taking of the. blessedness of that love which death 
cannot quench. Let not my name gather about it an 
awfulness or a sacredness, such that it may not be ut- 
tered in the places where I have lived ; or if in the 
sanctuary where it is kept, there is a delicacy that for- 
bids the easy utterance of it, still let it not be invested 
with gloom and sadness. Think of me when I am 
gone, as one who thought much on death ; who had 
thoughts of it, more and greater than he could in the 



252 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



ordinary goings on of life, find fit occasion to utter. If 
you could wish that I had said more to you, on this 
and many other themes, yet give the confidence, that 
you must ask, for that secret world within us all, that 
world of a thousand tender thoughts and feelings, for 
which language has no expression. Think of me as 
still possessing those thoughts and feelings, as still the 
same to you, as one that loves you still ; for death 
shall not destroy in us, that image of Christ, a pure 
and holy love. If I retain my consciousness, I must 
still think of you ; with more than all the love I ever 
felt ; it cannot be otherwise. And if I am to sleep till 
the resurrection, though my hope is far different : be- 
lieving in Jesus, my hope is that I am already of the 
Resurrection ; yet if it be so, that God has ordained 
that pause in my existence, it is surely for a wise pur- 
pose ; it is doubtless best for me ; and to the ever good 
and blessed will of God, I calmly and humbly submit 
myself : to that ever gracious will, I pray you to be 
patiently and cheerfully resigned. How much better 
is it than your will or mine ! What boundless good 
may we not expect, from an Infinite Will, prompted 
by an Infinite Love ! Lift up your lowly thoughts to 
this : lift them up to the heavenly regions, to the 
boundless universe, to the all-embracing eternity ; and 
in these contemplations lose the too keen sense of this 
breathing hour of time, of this world of dust and sha- 
dows — and of brightness and beauty, too : for all is 
good ; all in earth and in heaven, in time and eterni- 
ty, is good." 

Thus, I conceive, might a wise and good man, about 
to depart from this life, speak to those whom he was 
to leave behind him. And thus might those who have 
died in infant innocence ; thus might angel-children 
speak from some brighter sphere. And if it were wis- 



life's consolations. 



253 



dom thus to speak, then let that wisdom sink into our 
hearts, and bring there its consolation. Perfect relief 
from suffering it cannot bring ; sorrow we may, we 
must ; many and bitter pains must we bear in this 
mortal lot ; Jesus wept over such pains, and we may 
weep over them ; but let us be wise ; let us be trust- 
ful ; let the love of God fill our hearts ; let the hea- 
venly consolation help us, all that it can. It can help 
us much. It is not mere breath of words to say that 
God is good, that all is right, all is well ; all that con- 
cerns us is the care of Infinite Love. It is not a mere 
religious common-place, to say that submission, trust, 
love can help us. More than eye ever saw or the ear 
ever heard, or the worldly heart ever conceived, can a 
deep, humble, child-like, loving piety bring help and 
comfort in the hours of mortal sorrow and bitterness. 
Believest thou this ? This was our Saviour's question 
to Martha, in her distress. " He that believeth on me, 
though he were dead, yet shall he live. And he that 
lieveth and believeth on me, shall never die. Believest 
thou this ?" This humble-believing, this heart-believ- 
ing, my friends, is what we need — must have — must 
seek. The breathing of the life of Jesus in us, the 
bright cloud around us, in which he walked , this can 
comfort us beyond all that we know, all that we ima- 
gine. May we find that comfort ! Forlorn, forsaken ; 
or deprived, destitute ; or bereaved, broken-hearted ; 
whatever be our strait or sorrow ; may we find that 
comfort ! 

My Brethren, I have been communing now, with 
affliction. It is a holy and delicate office ; and I have 
been afraid, when speaking with all the earnestness I 
felt, lest I should not speak with all the delicacy I 
ought ; lest I should only add to grief, by touching its 
wound. But I felt that I was coming to meet sorrow ; 
22 



254 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



I know that I often come to meet it here ; it has of 
late, occupied much of my mind ; and I could not re- 
frain from offering my humble aid for its relief. 

I reflected too that I was coming this morning, to 
this sacred table,^ this altar reared for the comfort of 
all believing souls ; reared by dying hands, to the re- 
surrection, to the hope of everlasting life. It was the 
same night in which he was betrayed : it was when 
he was about to die, that Jesus set forth in the form 
of a feast, this solemn and cheering memorial of him- 
self ; and uttered many soothing and consoling words 
to his disciples. He did not build a tomb, by which 
to be remembered ; but he appointed a feast of remem- 
brance. He did not tell his disciples to put on sack- 
cloth ; but to clothe themselves with the recollections 
of him, as with the robe of immortality. Death in- 
deed, was a dread to him ; and he shrunk from it. It 
was a grief to his disciples ; and he recognised it as 
such, and so dealt with it. But he showed to them a 
trust in God, a loving submission to the Father, that 
could stay the soul. He spoke of a victory over death. 
He assured them that man's last enemy was conquer- 
ed. Here then amidst these memorials of death, let 
us meditate upon the life everlasting. Let us carry 
our thoughts to that world where Christ is, and where 
he prayed that all who love him, might be with him ; 
where, we believe, they are with him. Let our faith 
rise so high — God grant it ! — that we can say : " Oh ! 
grave, where is thy victory ? Oh ! death, where is thy 
sting ? Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory, 
through Jesus Christ, our Lord P 

* Preached before the Communion. 



XVII 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF 
CHRIST. 

IN HIM WAS LIFE, AND THE LIFE WAS THE LIGHT OF MEN.— John i. 4 

The words, "life and light," are constantly used by 
the Apostle John, after a manner long familiar in the 
Hebrew writings, for spiritual happiness, and spiritual 
truth. The inmost and truest life of man, the life of 
his life, is spiritual life — is, in other words, purity, love, 
goodness ; and this inward purity, love, goodness, is 
the very light of life ; that which brightens, blesses, 
guides it. 

I have little respect for the ingenuity that is always 
striving to work out from the simple language of 
Scripture, fanciful and far-fetched meanings ; but it 
would seem, in the passage before us, as if John in- 
tended to state one of the deepest truths in the very 
frame of our being ; and that is, that goodness is the 
fountain of wisdom. 

Give me your patience a moment, and I will attempt 
to explaiu this proposition. " In it, was life that is, 
in this manifested and all-creating energy, this out- 
flowing of the power of God, was a divine and infinite 
love and joy ; and this life was the light of men. 
That is to say — love first, then light. Light does not 
create love ; but love creates light. The good heart 
only can understand the good teaching. The doc- 
trine of truth that guides a man, comes from the divi- 



256 



ON HUMAN LIFE, 



nity of goodness that inspires him. But, it will be 
said, does not a man become holy or good, in view of 
truth ? I answer, that he cannot view the truth, but 
through the medium of love. It is the loving view 
only, that is effective ; that is any view at all. I must 
desire you to observe that I am speaking now of the 
primary convictions of a man, and not of the secon- 
dary influences that operate upon him. Light may 
strengthen love ; a knowledge of the works and ways 
of God may have this effect, and it is properly pre- 
sented for this purpose. But light cannot originate 
love. If love were not implanted in man's original 
and inmost being ; if there were not placed there, the 
moral or spiritual feeling, that loves while it perceives 
goodness ; all the speculative light in the universe, 
would leave man's nature, still and forever cold and 
dead as a stone. In short, loveliness is a quality which 
nothing but love can perceive. God cannot be known 
in his highest, that is, in his spiritual and holy nature^ 
except by those who love him. 

Now of this life and light, as we are immediately 
afterwards taught, Jesus Christ, not as a teacher mere- 
ly, but as a being, is to us the great and appointed 
source. And therefore when Thomas says, " how can 
we know the way of which thou speakest," Jesus an- 
swers, " I am the way, and the truth and the life ; no 
man cometh to the Father but by me." That is, no 
man can truly come to God, but in that spirit of filial 
love, of which I am the example. 

In our humanity there is a problem. In Christ only 
is it perfectly solved. The speculative solution of that 
problem, is philosophy. The practical solution is a 
good life ; and the only perfect solution is, the life of 
Christ. " In him was life, and the life was the light 
of men." 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 



257 



In him, I say, was solved the problem of life. What 
is that problem ? What are the questions which it 
presents ? They are these : Is there anything that 
can be achieved in life, in which our nature can find 
fall satisfaction and sufficiency ? And if there be any 
such thing, any such end of life ; then is there any 
adaptation of things to that end ? Are there any 
means or helps provided in life, for its attainment ? 
Now the end must be the highest condition of our 
highest nature ; and that end, we say, is virtue, sanc- 
tity, blessedness. And the helps or means are found 
in the whole discipline of life. But the end was per- 
fectly accomplished in Christ, and it was accomplished 
through the very means which are appointed to us. 
" He was tempted in all points as we are, yet without 
sin and " he was made thus perfect through suf- 
ferings." 

Our Saviour evidently regarded himself as sustain- 
ing this relation to human life ; the enlightener of its 
darkness, the interpreter of its mystery, the solver of 
its problem. " I am the light of the world," he says ; 
" he that followeth me, shall not walk in darkness, 
but shall have the light of life." And again : " I am 
come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth 
on me, should not abide in darkness." It was not for 
abstract teaching to men that he came, but for actual 
guidance in their daily abodes. It was not to deliver 
doctrines alone, nor to utter or echo back the intuitive 
convictions of our own minds, but to live a life and to 
die a death ; and so to live and to die, as to cast light 
upon the dark paths in which we walk. 

I need not say that there is darkness in the paths 
of men ; that they stumble at difficulties, are ensnared 
by temptations, are perplexed by doubts ; that they 
are anxious and troubled and fearful ; that pain and 
22* 



258 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



affliction and sorrow often gather around the steps of 
their earthly pilgrimage. All this is written upon the 
very tablet of the human heart. And I do not say 
that all this is to be erased ; but only that it is to be 
seen and read in a new light. I do not say that ills 
and trials and sufferings are to De removed from life ; 
but only that over this scene of mortal trouble a new 
heaven is to be spread ; and that the light of that 
heaven is Christ, the sun of righteousness. 

To human pride, this may be a hard saying ; to hu- 
man philosophy, learning, and grandeur, it may be a 
hard saying ; but still it is true, that the simple life of 
Christ, studied, understood and imitated, would shed a 
brighter light than all earthly wisdom can find, upon 
the dark trials and mysteries of our lot. It is true that 
whatever you most need or sigh for, whatever you most 
want, to still the troubles of your heart or compose the 
agitations of your mind, the simple life of Jesus can 
teach you. 

To show this, I need only take the most ordinary 
admissions from the lips of any Christian, or I may 
say, of almost any unbeliever. 

Suppose that the world were filled with beings like 
Jesus. Would not all the great ills of society be in- 
stantly relieved ? Would you not immediately dis- 
miss all your anxieties concerning it ; perfectly sure 
that all was going on well ? Would not all coercion, 
infliction, injury, injustice, and all the greatest suffer- 
ing of life, disappear at once ? If, at the stretching 
out of some wonder-working wand, that change could 
take place, would not the change be greater far, than 
if every house, hovel and prison on earth, were instant- 
ly turned into a palace of ease and abundance and 
splendour? Happy then would be these "human 
years f and the eternal ages would roll on in bright- 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 259 

ness and beauty ! The " still, sad music of humanity," 
that sounds through the world, now in the swellings of 
grief, and now in pensive melancholy, would be ex- 
changed for anthems, lifted up to the march of time, 
and bursting out from the heart of the world ! 

But let us make another supposition, and bring it 
still nearer to ourselves. Were any one of us a perfect 
imitator of Christ ; were any one of us clothed with 
the divinity of his virtue and faith ; do you not per- 
ceive what the effect would be? Look around upon 
the circle of life's ills and trials, and observe the effect. 
Did sensual passions assail you? How weak would 
be their solicitation to the divine beatitude of your 
own heart ! You would say, " I have meat to eat that 
ye know not of." Did want tempt you to do wrongly, 
or curiosity to do rashly ? You would say to the one, 
" man shall not live by bread alone ; there is a higher 
life which I must live ;" and to the other, " thou shalt 
not tempt the Lord thy God." Did ambition spread 
its kingdoms and thrones before you, and ask you to 
swerve from your great allegiance ? Your reply would 
be ready : " Get thee hence, Satan, for it is written, 
thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only 
shalt thou serve." Did the storm of injury beat upon 
your head, or its silent shaft pierce your heart ? In 
meekness you would bow that head, in prayer, that 
heart; saying, 1 Father forgive them, for they know 
not what they do." What sorrow could reach you ; 
what pain, what anguish, that would not be soothed 
by a faith and a love like that of Jesus ? And what 
blessing could light on you, that would not be bright- 
ened by a filial piety and gratitude like his ? The 
world around you would be new, and the heavens 
over you would be new ; for they would be all, and all 
around their ample range, and all through their glo- 



260 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



rious splendours, the presence and the visitation of a 
Father. And you yourself, would be a new creature ; 
and you would enjoy a happiness new, and now scarce- 
ly known on earth. 

And I cannot help observing here, that if such be 
the spontaneous conviction of every mind at all ac- 
quainted with Christianity, what a powerful indepen- 
dent argument there is for receiving Christ as a guide 
and example ! It were an anomaly, indeed, to the 
eye of reason, to reject the solemn and self-claimed 
mission of one, whom it would be happiness to follow, 
whom it would be perfection to imitate. Yet if the 
former, the special mission, were rejected ; if it were, 
as it may be, by possibility, honestly rejected ; what is 
a man to think of himself, who passes by, and discards 
the latter, the teaching of the life of Christ ? Let it 
be the man, Rousseau, or the man, Hume, or any man 
in these days, who says that he believes nothing in 
churches or miracles or missions from heaven. But 
he admits, as they did and as every one must, that in 
Jesus Christ was the most perfect unfolding of all 
divine beauty and holiness that the world ever saw. 
What, I say, is he to do with this undeniable and 
imdenied Gospel of the life of Jesus ? Blessed is he, 
if he receives it ; that is unquestionable. All who 
read of him, all the world, admits that. But what 
shall we say if he rejects it ? If any one could be 
clothed with the eloquence of Cicero or the wisdom of 
Socrates, and would not, all the world would pro- 
nounce hirn a fool, would say that he had denied his 
humanity. And surely if any one could be invested 
with all the beauty and grandeur of the life of Jesus, 
and would not ; he must be stricken with utter moral 
fatuity ; he must be accounted to have denied his 
highest humanity. The interpretation of his case is 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 



261 



as plain as words can make it ; and it is this : " light 
has come into the world, and men have loved darkness 
rather than light, because their deeds are evil." 

" In him was life," says our text, u and the life was 
the light of men." 

I have attempted to bring home the conviction of 
this, simply by bringing before your minds the suppo- 
sition that the world, and we ourselves, were like him. 
But as no conviction, I think, at the present stage of 
our Christian progress, is so important as this, let me 
attempt to impress it, by another course of reflections. 
I say of our Christian progress. We have cleared away 
many obstacles, as we think, and have come near to 
the simplicity of the Gospel. No complicated ecclesi- 
astical organization nor scholastic creed, stands be- 
tween us and the solemn verities of Christianity. I 
am not now pronouncing upon those accumulations 
of human devices ; but I mean especially to say, that 
no mystical notions of their necessity or importance, 
mingle themselves with our ideas of acceptance. We 
have come to stand before the simple, naked shrine of 
the original Gospel. We have come, through many 
human teachings and human admonitions, to Christ 
himself. But little will it avail us to have come so 
far, if we take not one step farther. Now, what I 
think we need is, to enter more deeply into the study 
and understanding of what Christ was. 

This, let us attempt. And I pray you and myself, 
Brethren, not to be content with the little that can now 
be said ; but let us carefully read the Gospels for our- 
selves, and lay the law of the life of Christ, with rigo- 
rous precision to our own lives, and see where they fail 
and come short. It is true indeed, and I would urge 
nothing beyond the truth, that the life of Jesus is not, 
in every respect, an example for us. That is to say, 



262 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



the manner of his life was, in some respects, different 
from what ours can, or should be. He was a teacher; 
and the most of us are necessarily and lawfully en- 
gaged in the business of life. He was sent on a pecu- 
liar mission ; and none of us have such a mission. 
But the spirit that was in him, may be in us. To 
some of the traits of this spirit, as the only sources of 
light and help to us, let me now briefly direct your 
attention. 

And first, consider his self-renunciation. How en- 
tire that self-renunciation was ; how completely his 
aims went beyond personal ease and selfish gratifica- 
tion ; how all his thoughts and words and actions 
were employed upon the work for which he was sent 
into the w T orld ; how his whole life, as well as his 
death, was an offering to that cause ; I need not tell 
you. Indeed, so entirely is this his accredited charac- 
ter ; so completely is he set apart in our thoughts not 
only to a peculiar office, bat set apart too and sepa- 
rated from all human interests and affections, that w T e 
are liable to do his character in this respect, no proper 
justice. We isolate him, till he almost ceases to be an 
example to us ; till he almost ceases to be a virtuous 
being. He stands alone in Judea ; and the words — ■ 
society, country, kindred, friendship, home — seem to 
have, to him, only a fictitious application. But these 
ties bound him as they do others ; the gentleness and 
tenderness of his nature made him peculiarly suscep- 
tible to them ; no more touching allusions to kindred 
and country can be found in human language, than 
his ; as when he said, " Oh ! Jerusalem ! Jerusalem !" 
in foresight of her coming woes ; as when he said on 
the cross, " behold thy mother ! behold thy son ! " 
Doubtless he desired to be a benefactor to his country, 
an honour to his family ; and when Peter, deprecating 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 



263 



his dishonour and degradation, said, " be it far from 
thee, Lord ! this shall not be unto thee," and he turned 
and said unto Peter, " get thee behind me. Satan, thou 
savourest not the things that be of God, but those that 
be of men," it has been beautifully suggested that the 
very energy of that repulse to his enthusiastic and 
admiring disciple, shows perhaps that he felt that there 
was something in his mind that was leaning that 
way ; that the things of men were contending with 
the things of God in him : that he too much dreaded 
the coming humiliation and agony, to wish to have 
that feeling fostered in his heart. 

But he rejected all this ; he renounced himself, re- 
nounced all the dear affections and softer pleadings 
of his affectionate nature, that he might be true to 
higher interests than his own, or his country's, or his 
kindred's. 

Now I say that the same self-renunciation would re- 
lieve us of more than half of the difficulties and of the 
diseased and painful affections of our lives. Simple 
obedience to rectitude, instead of self-interest, simple 
self-culture, instead of ever cultivating the good opinion 
of others ; how many disturbing and irritating ques- 
tions would these single-hearted aims, take away from 
cur bosom meditations ! Let us not mistake the 
character of this self-renunciation. "VVe are required, 
not to renounce the nobler and better affections of our 
natures, not to renounce happiness, not to renounce our 
just dues of honour and love from men. It is remark- 
able that our Saviour, amidst all his meekness and all 
his sacrifices, always claimed that he deserved well of 
men, deserved to be honoured and beloved. It is not 
to vilify ourselves that is required of us ; not to re- 
nounce our self-respect, the just and reasonable sense 
of our merits and deserts; not to renounce our own 



264 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



righteousness, our own virtue, if we have any ; such 
falsehood towards ourselves gains no countenance from 
the example of Jesus ; but it is to renounce our sins, 
our passions, our self-flattering delusions ; and it is to 
forego all outward advantages which can be gained 
only through a sacrifice of our inward integrity, or 
through anxious and petty contrivances and complian- 
ces. What we have to do, is to choose and keep the 
better part ; to secure that, and let the worst take care 
of itself ; to keep a good conscience, and let opinion 
come and go as it will ; to keep high, self-respect, and 
to let low self-indulgence go ; to keep inward happi- 
ness, and let outward advantages hold a subordinate 
place. Self-renunciation, in fine, is, not to renounce 
ourselves in the highest character ; not to renounce our 
moral selves, ourselves as the creatures and children 
of God ; herein rather it is to cherish ourselves, to 
make the most of ourselves, to hold ourselves inex- 
pressibly dear. What then is it precisely to renounce 
ourselves ? It is to renounce our selfishness ; to have 
done with this eternal self-considering which now dis- 
turbs and vexes our lives ; to cease that ever asking 
" and what shall we have ?" — to be content with the 
plenitude of God's abounding mercies ; to feast upon 
that infinite love, that is shed all around us and with- 
in us ; and so to be happy. I see many a person, in 
society, honoured, rich, beautiful, but wearing still an 
anxious and disturbed countenance ; many a one upon 
whom this simple principle, this simple self-forgetting, 
would bring a change in their appearance, demeanour, 
and the whole manner of their living and being ; a 
change that would make them tenfold more beautiful, 
rich and honoured. Yes ; strange as it may seem to 
them ; what they want, is, to commune deeply, in 
prayer and meditation, with the spirit of Jesus, to be 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 



265 



clothed, not with outward adorning, but with the sim- 
ple self-forgetting, single-hearted truth and beauty of 
his spirit. This is the change, this is the conversion 
that they want, to make them lovely and happy be- 
yond all the aspirations of their ambition, and all 
their dreams of happiness. 

Have you never observed how happy is the mere 
visionary schemer, quite absorbed in his plans, quite 
thoughtless of everything else ? Have you never re- 
marked how easy and felicitous, is the manner in 
society, the eloquence in the public assembly, the 
whole life's action, of one who has forgotten himself? 
For this reason in part it is, that the eager pursuit of 
fortune is often happier than the after enjoyment of it ; 
for now the man begins to look about for happiness, and 
to ask for a respect and attention which he seldom satis- 
factorily receives ; and many such are found, to the 
wonder and mortification of their families, looking 
back from their splendid dwellings, and often refer- 
ring to the humble shop in which they worked ; and 
wishing in their hearts, that they were there again. 

It is our inordinate self-seeking, self-considering, that 
is ever a stumbling-block in our way. It is this which 
spreads questions, snares, difficulties around us. It is 
this that darkens the very ways of Providence to us, 
and makes the world a less happy world to us, than 
it might be. . There is one thought that could take us 
out from all these difficulties ; but we cannot think it. 
There is one clue from the labyrinth ; there is one so- 
lution of this struggling philosophy of life within us ; 
it is found in that Gospel, that life of Jesus, with which 
we have, alas ! but little deep, heart-acquaintance. 
Every one must know, that if he could be elevated to 
that self-forgetting simplicity and disinterestedness, he 
would be relieved from more than half of the inmost 
23 



266 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



trials of his bosom. What then can be done for us, 
but that we be directed, and that too with a concern 
as solemn as our deepest wisdom and welfare, to the 
Gospel of Christ ? " In him was life ; and the life 
was the light of men." 

In him was the life of perfect love. This is the 
second all-enlightening, all-healing principle that the 
Gospel of Christ commends to us. It is indeed the 
main and positive virtue, of which self-renunciation is 
but the negative side. 

Again, I need not insist upon the pre-eminence of 
this principle in the life of our Saviour. But I must 
again remind you that this principle is not to be looked 
upon as some sublime abstraction, as merely a love 
that drew him from the bliss of heaven, to achieve 
some stupendous and solitary work on earth. It was 
a vital and heartfelt love to all around him : it was af- 
fection to his kindred, tenderness to his friends, gentle- 
ness and forbearance towards his disciples, pity to the 
suffering, forgiveness to his enemies, prayer for his 
murderers ; love flowing all round him as the garment 
of life, and investing pain and toil and torture and 
death, with a serene and holy beauty. 

It is not enough to renounce ourselves, and there to 
stop. It is not enough to wrap ourselves in our close 
garment of reserve and pride, and to say, " the world 
cares nothing for us. and we will care nothing for the 
world ; society does us no justice, and we will withdraw 
from it our thoughts, and see how patiently we can live 
within the confines of our own bosom, or in quiet com- 
munion, through books, with the mighty dead." Xo 
man ever found peace or light in this way. The mis- 
anthropic recluse is ever the most miserable of men, 
whether he lives in cave or castle. Every relation to 
mankind, of hate or scorn or neglect, is full of vexa- 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 267 



tion and torment. There is nothing to do with men, 
but to love them : to contemplate their virtues with 
admiration, their faults with pity and forbearance, and 
their injuries with forgiveness. Task all the ingenuity 
of your mind to devise some other thing, but you never 
can find it. To all the haughtiness and wrath of men, 
I say — how T ever they may disdain the suggestion — the 
spirit of Jesus is the only help for you. To hate your 
adversary will not help you ; to kill him will not help 
you ; nothing within the compass of the universe can 
help you, but to love him. Oh ! how wonderfully is 
man shut up to w T isdom — barred, as I may say, and 
imprisoned and shut up to wisdom ; and yet he will 
not learn it. 

But let that love flow out upon all around you, and 
what could harm you ? It would clothe you with an 
impenetrable, heaven-tempered armour. Or suppose, 
to do it justice, that it leaves you, all defencelessness, 
as it did Jesus ; all vulnerableness, through delicacy, 
through tenderness, through sympathy, through pity ; 
suppose that you suffer, as all must suffer ; suppose 
that you be wounded, as gentleness only can be wound- 
ed ; yet how would that love flow, with precious heal- 
ing, through every wound ! How many difficulties 
too, both within and without a man, would it relieve ! 
How many dull minds would it rouse ; how many de- 
pressed minds would it lift up ! How many troubles, 
in society, would it compose ; how many enmities 
would it soften ; how many questions, answer ! How 
many a knot of mystery and misunderstanding would 
be untied by one word spoken in simple and confiding 
truth of heart ! How many a rough path would be 
made smooth, and crooked way be made strait ! How T 
many a solitary place would be made glad, if love were 
there ; and how many a dark dwelling would be filled 



268 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



with light ! " In him was life, and the life was the 
light of men." 

Once more : there was a sublime spirituality in the 
mind of Jesus, which must come into our life, to fill up 
the measure of its light. It is not enough in my view, 
to yield ourselves to the blessed bonds of love and self- 
renunciation, in the immediate circles of our lives. 
Our minds must go into the infinite and immortal re- 
gions, to find sufficiency and satisfaction for the present 
hour. There must be a breadth of contemplation in 
which this world shrinks, I will not say to a point, but 
to the narrow span that it is. There must be aims, 
which reign over the events of life, and make us feel 
that we can resign all the advantages of life, yea, and 
life itself ; and yet be " conquerors and more than con- 
querors through him who has loved us." 

There is many a crisis in life when we need a faith 
like the martyr's to support us. There are hours in 
life like martyrdom — as full of bitter anguish, as full 
of utter earthly desolation ; in which more than our 
sinews, in which we feel as if our very heart-strings 
were stretched and lacerated on the rack of affliction : 
in which life itself loses its value, and we ask to die ; 
in whose dread struggle and agony, life might drop 
from us, and not be minded. Oh ! then must our cry, 
like that of Jesus, go up to the pitying heavens for 
help, and nothing but the infinite and the immortal 
can help us. Calculate, then, all the gains of earth, 
and they are trash ; all its pleasures, and they are 
vanity ; all its hopes, and they are illusions ; and then, 
when the world is sinking beneath us, must we seek 
the everlasting arms to bear us up, to bear us up to 
heaven. Thus was it with our great Example, and 
so must it be with us. " In him was life f the life of 
self-renunciation, the life of love, the life of spiritual 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED. 



269 



and all-conquering faith ; and that life is the light of 
men. Oh ! blessed light ! come to our darkness ; for 
our soul is dark, our way is dark, for want of thee ; 
come to our darkness, and turn it into day ; and let it 
shine brighter and brighter, till it mingles with the 
light of the all-perfect and everlasting day ! 
23* 



XVIII. 



ON RELIGION, AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE 

IP IN THIS LIFE ONLY WE HAVE HOPE, WE ARE OF ALL MEN MOST MISERABLE. 

I Cor. xv. 19. 

There is a nation in modern times, of which it is 
constantly said that it has no religion ; that in this life 
only has it hope. One is continually assured, not by 
foreigners alone, but in that very country — I need not 
say that I speak of France — that the people there 
have no religion, that the religious sentiment has be- 
come nearly extinct among them.* 

Although there is, doubtless, some exaggeration in 
the statement, as would be very natural in a case so 
very extraordinary, and the rather as the representa- 
tion of it comes from a people who are fond of ap- 
pearing an extraordinary and wonderful people, and 
of striking the world with astonishment ; yet there is 
still so much truth in the representation, and it is a 
thing so unheard of in the history of all nations, 
whether Heathen, Mahometan, or Christian, that one 
is naturally led to reflect upon the problem which the 
case presents for our consideration. Can a nation go 
on without religion ? Can a people live devoid of 
every religious hope, without being of all people the 
most miserable? Can human nature bear such a 
state ? This is the problem. 

* Such is the language which I heard fourteen years ago in 
France : but I trust, it is becoming every day less applicable. 



RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT. 271 

It is the more important to discuss this problem, be- 
cause, the very spectacle of such a nation, has some 
tendency to unhinge the faith of the world. The 
thoughtless at least, the young perhaps, who are gene- 
rally supposed to feel less than others, the necessity of 
this great principle, may be led to say w T ith them- 
selves, " is not religion after all, an error, a delusion, a 
superstition, with which mankind will yet be able to 
dispense ? " * A part of my reply to this question I 
propose to draw especially from the experience of the 
young. For I think, indeed, that instead of this being 
an age, when men, and the young especially, can af- 
ford to dispense w T ith the aid and guidance of reli- 
gion, it is an age which is witnessing an extraordinary 
development of sensibility, and is urging the need of 
piety beyond, perhaps beyond all former ages. The 
circumstances, as T conceive, which have led to this 
development, are the diffusion of knowledge, and the 
new social relationships introduced by free principles. 
But my subject, at present, does not permit me to en- 
large upon these points. 

Can the world, then, go on without religion ? I will 
not inquire now whether human governments can go 
on. But can the human heart go on without religion? 
Can all its resistless energies, its swelling passions, its 
overburthening affections, be borne without piety ? 
Can it suffer changes, disappointments, bereavements, 
desolations ; ay, or can it satisfactorily bear over- 
whelming joy, without religion ? Can youth and man- 
hood and age, can life and death, be passed through, 
without the great principle which reigns over all the 
periods of life, which triumphs over death, and is en- 
throned in the immortality of faith, of virtue, of truth, 
and of God? 

* The very opinion of the French Auguste Comte. 



272 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



I answer, with a confidence that the lapse of a hun- 
dred nations into Atheism, could not shake, that it is 
not possible : in the eye of reason and truth, that is 
to say, it is not possible for the world, for the human 
heart, for life, to go on without religion. Religion, na- 
turally, fairly, rightly regarded, is the great sentiment 
of life : ai\d this is the point which I shall now endea- 
vour to illustrate. 

What 1 mean by saying that religion is the great 
sentiment of life, is this : that all the great and lead- 
ing states of mind which this life originates or occa- 
sions in every reflecting person, demand the sentiment 
of religion for their support and safety. Religion, I 
am aware, is considered by many, as something stand- 
ing by itself, and which a man may take as the com- 
panion of his journey, or not take, as he pleases ; 
and many persons, I know, calmly, some, it is pos- 
sible, contemptuously, leave it to stand aside and by 
itself, as not worthy of their invitation, or not worthy, 
at any rate, of being earnestly sought by them. But 
when they thus leave it, I undertake to say, that 
they do uot understand the great mental pilgrimage 
on w r hich they are going. If all the teachings of 
nature were withdrawn, if Revelation were blotted 
out, if events did not teach ; yet the very experience 
of life, the natural development of human feeling, 
the history of every mind which, as a mind, has any 
history, would urge it to embrace religion as an in- 
dispensable resort. There is thus, therefore, not only 
a kind of metaphysical necessity in the very nature 
of the mind, and a moral call in all its situations, 
for religion ; but there is wrapped up within the very 
germs of all human experience, of all human feeling, 
joyous or sorrowful ; there is, attending the very de- 
velopment of all the natural affections, a want, a 



RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT. 273 



need inexpressible, of the power of that divine prin- 
ciple. 

Let us trace this want, this need, in some of the 
different stages, through which the character usually 
passes. Let us see whether this great necessity does 
not press down upon every period of life, and even 
upon its commencement ; yes, whether upon the very 
heart of youth, there are not already deep records of 
experience, that point it to this great reliance. I 
have in a former discourse, spoken of the disappoint- 
ments of youth ; I now speak of its wants and dan- 
gers. 

In youth then — that is to say, somewhere between 
the period of childhood and manhood — there is com- 
monly, a striking development of sensibility and ima- 
gination. The passions, then, if not more powerful 
than at any other period, are at any rate more vivid, 
because their objects are new : and they are then 
most uncontrollable, because neither reason nor ex- 
perience have attained to the maturity necessary to 
moderate and restrain them. The young have not 
lived long enough, to see how direful are the effects 
of unbridled inclination, how baseless are the fabrics 
of ambition, how liable to disappointment are all the 
hopes of this world. And therefore the sensibility of 
youth, is apt to possess a character of strong excite- 
ment and almost of intoxication. I never look upon 
one at such a period, whose quick and ardent feel- 
ings mantle in the cheek at every turn, and flash in 
the eye and thrill through the veins, and falter in 
the hurried speech, in every conversation ; yes, and 
have deeper tokens, in the gathering paleness of the 
countenance, in speechless silence, and the tightening 
chords of almost suffocating emotion ; I never look 
upon such an one, all fresh and alive, and yet unused, 



274 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



to the might and mystery of the power that is working" 
within ; a being full of imagination too, living a life 
but half of realities, and full half of airy dreams ; a 
being, whom a thousand things, afterwards to be re- 
garded with a graver eye, now move to laughter or to 
tears ; I never look upon such an one — how is it possi- 
ble to do so ? — without feeling that one thing is need- 
ful ; and that is, the serenity of religion, the sobriety 
and steadiness of deep-founded principle, the strong 
and lofty aim of sacred virtue. 

But the sensibility of youth, is not always joyous 
nor enthusiastic. Long ere it loses its freshness or its 
fascination, it oftentimes meets with checks and diffi- 
culties ; it has its early troubles and sorrows. Some 
disappointment in its unsuspecting friendships, some 
school-day jealousy or affliction, some jar upon the 
susceptible nerves or the unruly passions, from the 
treatment of kindred or friends or associates ; or, at 
a later period, some galling chain of dependence or 
poverty or painful restraint ; or else, the no less pain- 
ful sense of mediocrity, the feeling in the young heart 
that the prizes of ambition are all out of its reach, 
that praise and admiration and love all fall to the lot 
of others ; some or other of these causes, I say, brings 
a cold blight over the warm and expanding affections 
of youth, and turns the bright elysium of life, for a 
season, into darkness and desolation. All this is not 
to be described as if it were a mere picture ; just 
enough, perhaps, but to be considered no otherwise 
than as a matter of youthful feeling, soon to pass away 
and to leave no results. This state of mind has re- 
sults. And the most common and dangerous is a fatal 
recklessness. The undisciplined and too often selfish 
heart says, " I do not care ; I do not care what others 
say or think of me ; I do not care how they treat me. 



RELIGION. THE GREAT SENTIMENT, 275 



Those who are loved and praised and fortunate, are 
no better than I am ; the world is unjust ; the world 
knows me not : and I care not if it never knows me. 
I will wrap myself in my own garment ; let them call 
it the garment of pride or reserve, it matters not ; I 
have feelings, and my own breast shall be their depo- 
sitory." Perhaps this recklessness goes farther, and 
the misguided youth says, " I will plunge into plea- 
sure ; I will find me companions, though they be bad 
ones ; I will make my friends care for me in one way, 
if they will not in another or he says, perhaps, " no- 
body cares for me, and therefore it is no matter what 
I do." 

My young friends, have you ever known any of 
these various trials of youth ? And, if you have, do 
you think that you can safely pass through them, with 
no better guidance than your own hasty and head- 
strong passions ? Oh ! believe it not. Passion is 
never a safe impulse ; but passion soured, irritated and 
undisciplined, is least of all to be trusted. If in this 
life only you have hope, if no influence from afar take 
hold of your minds, if no aims stretching out to bound- 
less and everlasting improvement strengthen and sus- 
tain you, if no holy conscience, no heavenly principle 
sets up its authority among your wayward impulses, 
you are indeed of all beings most to be pitied. Un- 
happy for you is all this ardour, this kindling fervour 
of emotion, this throng of conflicting passions, this 
bright or brooding imagination, giving a false colouring 
and magnitude to every object : unhappy for you, and 
all the more unhappy, if you do not welcome the sure 
guidance, the strong control of principle, of piety, of 
prayer. 

But let us advance to another stage of life and of 
feeling ; to the maturity of life. And I shall venture 



276 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



to say that where the mind really unfolds with grow- 
ing years ; where it is not absorbed in worldly gains 
or pleasures, so as to be kept in a sort of perpetual 
childhood ; where there is real susceptibility and re- 
flection, there is apt to steal over us, without religion, 
a spirit of misanthropy and melancholy. I have often 
observed it, and without any wonder ; for it seems to 
me, as if a thoughtful and feeling mind, without any 
trust in the great providence of God, without any com- 
munion of prayer with a Father in heaven, or any 
religious, any holy sympathy with its earthly brethren, 
or any cheering hope of their progress, must become 
reserved, distrustful, misanthropic, and often melan- 
choly. 

Youth, though often disappointed, is yet always 
looking forward ; and it is looking forward with inde- 
finite and unchecked anticipation. But in the progress 
of life, there comes a time when the mind looks back- 
ward as well as forward ; when it learns to correct the 
anticipations of the future, by the experience of the 
past. It has run through the courses of acquisition, 
pleasure or ambition, and it knows what they are, and 
what they are worth. The attractions of hope have 
not, indeed, lost all their power, but they have lost a 
part of their charm. 

Perhaps, even the disappointment of youth, though 
it has more of passion and grief in it, is not so bitter 
and sad, as that of maturer life, when it says, " well, 
and this is all. If I should add millions to my store ; 
if I should reap new honours, or gain new pleasures, 
it will only be what I have experienced before ; I know 
what it is ; I know it all. There is no more in this 
life ; I know it all." Ah ! how cold and cheerless is 
that period of human experience ; how does the heart 
of a man die within him, as he stands thus in the very 



RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT. 277 



midst of his acquisitions ; how do his very honours 
and attainments teach him to mourn ; and to mourn 
without hope, if there is no spiritual hope ! If the 
great moral objects of this life, and the immortal re- 
gions of another life, are not spread before him, then 
is he most miserable. Yes, I repeat, his very success, 
his good fortune brings him to this. There are unto- 
ward circumstances, I know ; there are afflictions that 
may lead a man to religion ; but what I now say, is, 
that the natural progress of every reflecting mind, 
however prosperous its fortunes, that the inevitable 
development of the growing experience of life, unfolds, 
in the very structure of every human soul, that great 
necessity, the necessity of religion. 

This world is dark and must be dark, without the 
light of religion ; even as the material orb would be 
dark without the light of Heaven to shine upon it. 
As if 

" The bright Sun were extinguished, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless and pathless ; and the icy earth 
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air f* 

so would the soul, conscious of its own nature, be, 
without the light of God's presence shining around it, 
without those truths that beam like the eternal stars 
from the depths of heaven ; without those influences, 
invisible and far off, like the powers of gravitation, to 
hold it steadily in its orbit, and to carry it onward with 
unerring guidance, in its bright career. And no phi- 
losopher, no really intellectual being, ever broke from 
the bonds of all religious faith, without finding his 
course dreary, " blind and blackening*' in the spiritual 
firmament. His soul becomes, in the expressive lan- 
guage of Scripture, " like a wandering star, or a cloud 
without water." No mean argument is this, indeed, 
24 



278 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



for the great truths of religion. But whether it is so 
or not, it is a fact. I know indeed that many persons 
possessed of sense and talent in this world's affairs, do 
live without religion, and ordinarily without any pain- 
ful consciousness of wanting it. But what do men of 
mere sense and talent in this world's affairs, know of 
the insatiable and illimitable desires of the mind ? 
What — what by very definition, as the votaries of 
worldly good, are they pursuing ? Why, it is some 
object about as far distant, in the bounded horizon of 
their vision, as that which the painted butterfly is pur- 
suing ; some flower, some bright thing a little before 
them ; bright honour, or dazzling gold, or gilded plea- 
sure. But let any mind awake to its real and sublime 
nature : let it feel the expanding, the indefinite reach- 
ing forth of those original and boundless thoughts 
which God has made it to feel ; let it sound those 
depths, soar to those heights, compass those illimitable 
heavens of thought, through which it was made to 
range ; and then let that mind tell me, if it can, that 
it wants no religion ; that it wants no central princi- 
ple of attraction, no infinite object of adoration and 
love and trust. Nay, if any mind, whatever its pre- 
tensions, should tell me this, I should not hesitate in 
my own judgment, to pronounce its acquisitions shal- 
low, or at any rate partial, or at the best, technical and 
scholastic. For it is not true, my brethren, that intel- 
lectual weakness most stands in need of religion, or is 
most fitted to feel the need of it ; but it is intellectual 
strength. I hold no truth to be more certain than 
this ; that every mind, in proportion to its real deve- 
lopment and expansion, is dark, is disproportioned, 
and unhappy, without religion. If in this life alone it 
has hope, it is of all minds most miserable. 

1 have spoken of youth and manhood as developing 



RELIGION. THE GREAT SENTIMENT. 



279 



the need of religion. Does age any less need it ? 
Where can that want exist if not in the aged heart ? 
It is not alone, that its pulses are faint and low ; it is 
not alone, that so many of its once cherished objects 
have departed from it ; it is not that the limbs are fee- 
ble, the eye dim and the ear dull of hearing : it is not 
that the aged frame is bent towards that earth into 
which it is soon to sink and find its last rest : but what 
is the position of an old man ? Where does he stand ? 
One life is passed through : one season of being is al- 
most spent : youth has found, long since, the goal of its 
career : manhood, at length, is gone : and he stands 
— where, and upon what ? What is it that spreads 
before him ? Is it a region of clouds and shadows ? 
Is all before him. dread darkness and vacuity, an 
eternal sleep, a boundless void ? Thus would it be 
without religion, without faith ! But how must he. 
who stands upon that shore of all visible being, from 
whence he can never turn back, how must he long for 
some sure word of promise, for some voice, that can 
tell him of eternal life, of eternal youth : of regions 
far away in the boundless universe of God. where he 
may wander on and onward forever ! Age. with faith, 
is but the beginning of life, the vouth of immortality: 
the times and seasons of its being are yet before it ; 
its gathered experience is but an education to prepare 
it for higher scenes and services : but age, without 
faith, is a wreck upon the shore of life, a ruin upon 
the beetling cliffs of time : tottering to its fall, and 
about to be engulfed, and lost forever ! 

I have thus attempted to show that religion is the 
great sentiment of each period of life. Let me now 
extend the same observation to those epochs in life, 
which are occasioned by changes in that material crea- 
tion which surrounds us. 



280 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



There are sentiments appropriate to the dying, and 
to the reviving year. What are they ? How striking 
is the answer which is given in all literature and poe- 
try ! Men are able, no doubt, to walk through the 
round of the seasons, without much reflection ; but 
the moment any sentiment is awakened, it is the sen- 
timent of religion ; it is a thoughtfulness about God's 
wisdom and beneficence, about life and death and eter- 
nity. Thus it is that every poet of the seasons, every 
poet of nature, is devout ; devout in his meditations 
when he writes, if not devout in his habits always. 

And what man, in thoughtful mood, can walk forth 
in the still and quiet season of Autumn, and tread upon 
the seared grass that is almost painfully audible to the 
serious emotions of his heart, and listen to the fall of 
the leaf that seems, idle as it is, as if it were the foot- 
step of some predestined event, and hear the far echo 
of the hills and the solemn wind dirge of the dying 
year ; and not meditate in that hour ; and not medi- 
tate upon things above the world and above all its 
grosser cares and interests ! " The dead, the loved, 
the lost" will come to him then ; the world will sink 
like a phantom-shadow ; and eternity will be a pre- 
sence ; and heaven, through the serene depths of those 
opening skies, will be to him a vision. 

But again, a change cometh ! The seals of winter 
are broken ; and lo ! the green herb and the tender 
grass, and bird and blossom come forth ; the clouds 
dissolve into softness, and open the azure depths be- 
yond ; and man goeth forth from imprisoning walls, 
and opens his bosom to the warmth and the breeze, 
and feels his frame expand with gladness and exulta- 
tion. Then what is he, if from the kindling joy of his 
heart arises no incense of gratitude ! It is the hour of 
nature's, and ought to be of man's thanksgiving. The 



RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT. 281 

very stones would cry out ; the green fields and the 
rejoicing hills would cry out against him, if he were 
not grateful. The sentiment of the spring-time, is the 
sentiment of religious gratitude ! 

Let us look at other changes. There is a sentiment 
of the morning. The darkness is rolled away from 
the earth ; the iron slumber of the world is broken ; it 
is the daily resurrection-hour of rejoicing millions. 
God hath said again, " let there be light and over 
the mountain-tops and over the waves of ocean it 
comes, and streams in upon the waking creation. 
Each morning that signal-light, calling to action, is at 
thy window ; duly it cometh, as with a message, 
saying, " awake, arise !" Thou wakest ; from dreamy 
slumbers, from helpless inactivity ; and what dost thou 
find ? Hast thou lost any thing of thyself in that 
. slumber of forgetfulness ? Hath not all been kept for 
thee ? Hath there not been a watch over thy sleep ? 
Thou wakest ; and each limb is filled with life ; each 
sense holds its station in thy wonderful frame ; each 
faculty, each thought is in its place ; no dark insanity, 
no dreary eclipse hath spread itself over thy soul. 
What shall the thoughts of that hour be, but wonder- 
ing and adoring thoughts ? Well are a portion of our 
prayers called matins. Morning prayers — morning 
prayers ; orisons in the first light of day, from the 
bended soul, if not from the bended knee ; were not 
the morning desecrated and denied, if a part and 
portion of it were not prayer ? 

And there is a sentiment of the eventide ; when the 
sun slowly sinks from our sight ; when the shadows 
steal over the earth ; when the shining hosts of the 
stars come forth ; when other worlds and other regions 
of the universe, are unveiled in the infinitude of 
heaven. Then to meditate, how reasonable, I had al- 
24* 



282 ON HUMAN LIFE. 

most said how inevitable is it ! How meet were it 
then, that in every house there should be a vesper- 
hymn ! I have read of such a scene in a village, in 
some country — I think it was in Italy — where the 
traveller heard, as the day went down, and amidst the 
gathering shadows of the still evening, first from one 
dwelling and then from another, the voices of song — ■ 
accompanied with simple instruments, flute and flageo- 
let ; it was the vesper hymn. How beautiful were it, 
in village or city, for dwelling thus to call to dwelling, 
saying, " great and marvellous are thy works, Lord 
God Almighty ; just and true are thy ways ; God of 
the morning ! God of the evening ! \ve praise thee ; 
goodness and mercy hast thou caused to follow us all 
our days." 

Thus have I attempted to show that religion is the 
great sentiment of life. It is our life. Our life is 
bound up with it, and in it ; and without it, life would 
be both miserable and ignoble. 

I will only add, in fine, that religion alone affords to 
us the hope of a future life, and that without this our 
present being is shorn of all its grandeur and hope. 

Whether we look at our own death or at the death 
of others, this consideration, this necessity of a faith 
that takes hold of eternity, presses upon us. I know 
very well what the common and worldly consolation is. 
I know very well, the hackneyed proverb, that u time 
is the curer of grief;" but I know very well too, that 
no time can suppress the sigh that is given to the loved 
and lost. Time, indeed, lightens the constant pressure 
of grief rather than blunts its edge ; and still more 
than either, perhaps, does it smooth over the outward 
aspect of that suffering : but often when all is out- 
wardly calm and even bright, does the conscious heart 
say, " I hear a voice you cannot hear ; I see a sign 



RELIGION. THE GREAT SENTIMENT. 283 



you cannot see f and it pays the sad and dear tribute 
of bereaved love. No, the memory of the beloved ones 
parts not from us. as its shadow passes from our coun- 
tenance. And who is there, around whose path such 
memories linger, that will not say, " I thank God, 
through our Lord Jesus Christ,'* through him who is 
the revealed " resurrection and life f through him who 
said, <; he that liveth and believe th in me, shall never 
die?*' For now, blessed be God, we mourn not as 
those who have no hope. But surely, dying creatures 
as we are, and living in a dying world, if in this 
life only we had hope, we should of all beings be most 
miserable. 

In fine, my view of life is such, that if it were not 
for my faith and hope, I should very little care what 
became of it Let it be longer or shorter, it would but 
little matter, if all was to end when life ended ; if all 
my hopes and aspirations, and cherished joys, were to 
be buried with me forever, in the tomb. Oh ! that life 
of insect cares and pursuits, and of insect brevity ! the 
mind that God has given me could only cast a sad and 
despairing look upon it, and then dismiss it, as not 
worth a farther thought. But no such sad and shock- 
ing incongruity, is there, thanks be to God, in the well 
ordered course of our being. The harmonies that are 
all around us, in all animal, in all vegetable life, in 
light and shade, in mountain and valley, in ocean and 
stream, in the linked train of the seasons, in the moving 
and dread array of all the heavenly hosts of worlds ; 
the harmonies of universal nature, but above all, the 
teachings of the Gospel, assure us that no such shock- 
ing incongruity and disorder are bound up in the frame 
of our nature. 

No ; it is true ; that which we so much need to 
support us, is true ; God doth look down upon our 



284 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



humble path with the eye of paternal wisdom and 
love ; this universe is full of spiritual influences to 
help us in the great conflict of life ; there is a world 
beyond in which we may assuredly trust. The heart, 
full of weighty interests and cares, of swelling hopes 
and aspirations, of thoughts too big for utterance, is 
not given us merely that we may bear it to the grave, 
and bury it there. From that sleeping dust shall rise 
the free spirit, to endless life. Thanks — let us again 
say and forever say — thanks be to God, who giveth us 
this victory of an assured hope, through our Lord 
Jesus Christ. 



XIX . 



OX THE RELIGION OF LIFE, 

HB HATH MADE EVERY THING BEAUTIFUL IN ITS TIME. — EcclesiasteS JUL 11. 

In my last discourse on human Life. I spoke of reli- 
gion as the great, appropriate and pervading sentiment, 
of life. The religion of life, by which I mean a dif- 
ferent thing ; the religion, the sanctity, the real, spirit- 
ual consecration naturally and properly belonging to 
all the appointed occupations, cultivated arts, lawful 
amusements and social bonds of life ; this is the sub- 
ject of my present discourse. 

By most religious systems, this life, the life, that is, 
which the world is leading, and has been leading 
through ages, is laid under a dark and fearful ban. 

No religion " — is the summary phrase which is 
written upon almost its entire history. Though it 
is held by these very systems, that the world was 
made for religion, made, that is to say, for the culture 
of religion in the hearts of its inhabitants ; yet it is 
contended that this purpose has been almost entirely 
frustrated. 

First, the heathen nations, by this theory, are cut off 
from all connection with real religion. Next, upon the 
mass of Christian nations, as being unregenerate and 
utterly depraved, the same sentence is passed. I am 
not disposed, on this subject, to exact the full measure 
of inference from any mere theory. Men's actual 
views are often in advance of their creeds. But is it 



286 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



not very evident, as a third consideration, that the pre- 
vailing views of the world's life, very well agree with 
the prevailing creeds ? Is it not the common feeling, 
that mankind in the mass, in the proportion of thou- 
sands to one, have failed to attain to anything of true 
religion ; to any, the least of that which fulfils the real 
and great design of the Creator ? Is it not commonly 
felt that the mass of men's pursuits, of their occupa- 
tions, of their pleasures, is completely severed from this 
great purpose ? In labour, in merchandise, in the 
practice of law and of medicine, in literature, in sculp- 
ture, painting, poetry, music, is it not the constant 
doctrine or implication of the pulpit, that there is no 
religion, no spiritual virtue, nothing accordant with the 
Gospel of Christ ? Men, amidst their pursuits, may 
attain to a divine life ; but are not the pursuits them- 
selves regarded, as having nothing, strictly speaking, 
to do with such a life, as having in them no elements 
of spiritual good, as having in them no tendency to 
advance religion and goodness in the world ? 

This certainly, upon the face of it, is a very extra- 
ordinary assumption. The pursuits in question, are 
— some of them necessary ; others, useful ; and all, 
natural ; that is to say, they are developments, and 
inevitable and predestined developments of the nature 
which God has given us. And yet it is maintained 
and believed, that they have no tendency to promote 
his great design in making the w T orld ; that they have 
nothing in them allied to his purpose ; that, at the 
most, they are only compatible with it, and that the ac- 
tual office which they discharge in the world, is to lead 
men away from it. The whole, heaven-ordained ac- 
tivity, occupation, care, ingenuity of human life, is at 
war with its great purpose. And if any one would 
seek the welfare of his soul, he is advised to leave all ; 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



287 



the farmer, his plow ; the merchant, his ships ; the 
lawyer, his briefs ; and the painter his easel ; and to 
go to a revival-meeting, or a confessional, or to retire 
to his closet. I need not say that I am not here ob- 
jecting to meditation, to distinct, thoughtful and solemn 
meditation, as one of the means of piety and virtue ; 
but I do protest against this ban and exclusion, which 
are thus virtually laid upon the beneficent and re- 
ligious instrumentalities of a wise and gracious Pro- 
vidence. 

On the contrary, I maintain that every thing is beau- 
tiful in its time, in its place, in its appointed office ; 
that every thing which man is put to do, naturally 
helps to work out his salvation ; in other words, that 
if he obey the genuine principles of his calling, he will 
be a good man ; and that it is only through disobe- 
dience to the heaven-appointed tasks, either by wan- 
dering into idle dissipation, or by violating their bene- 
ficent and lofty spirit, that he becomes a bad man. 
Yes, if man would yield himself to the great training 
of Providence in the appointed action of life, we should 
not need churches nor ordinances ; though they might 
still be proper for the expression of religious homage 
and gratitude. 

Let us then look at this action of life, and attempt 
to see what is involved in it, and whether it is all alien, 
as is commonly supposed, to the spirit of sacred truth 
and virtue. 

I. And the first sphere of visible activity which pre- 
sents itself, is labour ; the business of life, as opposed 
to what is commonly called study. I have before 
spoken of the moral ministration of labour ; but let us, 
in connexion with this subject, advert to it again. 

My subject in this discourse is the religion of life ; 
and I now say that there is a religion of toil. It is not 



288 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



all drudgery, a mere stretching of the limbs and strain- 
ing of the sinews to tasks. It has a meaning. It has 
an intent. A living heart pours life-blood into the toil- 
ing arm. Warm affections mingle with weary tasks. 

I say not how pure those affections are, or how much 
of imperfection may mix with them ; but I say that 
they are of a class, held by all men to be venerable 
and dear; that they partake of a kind of natural 
sanctity. They are, in other words, the home affec- 
tions. The labour that spreads itself over tilled acres, 
all points, for its centre, to the country farm-house. 
The labour that plies its task in busy cities, has the 
same central point, and thither it brings daily supplies. 
And when I see the weary hand bearing that nightly 
offering; when I see the toiling days-man, carrying to 
his home the means of support and comfort ; that of- 
fering is sacred to my thought, as a sacrifice at a 
golden shrine. Alas ! many faults there are, amidst 
the toils of life ; many hasty and harsh words are 
spoken ; but why do those toils go on at all ? Why 
are they not given up entirely ; weary and hard and 
exasperating as they often are? Because in that home, 
is sickness, or age, or protected though helping woman, 
to be provided for. Because that there, is helpless in- 
fancy or gentle childhood, that must not want. 

Such are the labours of life ; and though it is true 
that mere selfishness, mere solitary need would prompt 
to irregular and occasional exertion, or would push 
some ambitious persons, of covetous desires, to con- 
tinued and persevering effort ; yet I am persuaded, 
that the selfish impulses would never create that scene 
of labour, which we behold around us. 

Let us next look at the studious professions. 

And I must confess that I have often been struck 
with surprise that a physician could be an undevout 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE, 



289 



man. His study, the human frame, is the most won- 
derful display of divine wisdom in the world ; the most 
astonishing proof of contrivance, of providence. Fear- 
fully and wonderfully is it made : and if he who con- 
templates it, is not a reverent and heaven-adoring 
man, he is false to the very study that he calls his own. 
He reads a page, folded from the eyes of most men, a 
page of wondrous hieroglyphics ; that handwriting of 
nerves and sinews and arteries ; darkly he reads it, 
with a feeling enforced upon him that there is a wis- 
dom above and beyond him ; and if he is not a reli- 
giously inquiring and humble man, it seems to me 
that he knows not what he reads. Then again it is his 
office to visit scenes, where he is most especially taught 
the frailty of life, the impotence of man, and the need 
of a divine helper ; where the strong man is bowed 
down by an invisible blow to debility, to delirium, to 
utter helplessness ; where the dying stretch out their 
hands to heaven for aid, and to immortality for a reli- 
ance; where affliction, smitten to the dust and stript of 
all earthly supports, plainly declares that no sufficient 
resource is left for it, but Almighty Goodness. I do not 
say, that there is any thing in the physician's calling 
which necessarily makes him a religious and good 
man ; but I do say, that if he obeys the true spirit of 
his calling, he must be led to the formation of such 
a character, as the inevitable result. 

Turn next to the vocation of the lawyer ; and what 
is it ? It is to contribute his aid to the establishment 
and vindication of justice in the world. But what is 
justice ? It is rectitude, righteousness. It is the right 
between man and man ; and as an absolute quality, it 
is the high attribute of God. The lawyer may fall 
below this aim and view of his vocation ; but that is 
not the fault of his vocation. His vocation is most 



290 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



moral, most religious ; it connects him. most emphati- 
cally, with God ; he is the minister of Almighty jus- 
tice. In the strictest construction of things, the cler- 
gyman is not more truly God's minister, than he is. 
I know that the prevailing view is a different one. I 
know that the world looks upon this profession, as al- 
together irreligious, or altogether un-religious at the 
best. To say that the lawyer, however legitimately 
employed, is most religiously employed, sounds in 
most ears like mockery, I suppose. But let us look at 
his function, and let us put it in the most doubtful 
light. He goes up to the court of justice to plead the 
cause of his client. All the day long, he is engaged 
with examining witnesses, sifting evidence, and wrang- 
ling, if you please, for points of evidence and construc- 
tion and law. He may commit mistakes, no doubt. 
He may err, in temper or in judgment. But suppose 
that his leading aim, his wish, is to obtain justice. 
And it is a very supposable thing, even though he be 
on the wrong side. He goes into the case, and he 
goes up to the court, not knowing what the right is, 
what the evidence is. He strenuously handles and 
sifts the evidence, to help on towards the right conclu- 
sion. Or if you say, it is to help his view of the case ; 
still his function ministers to the same thing. For the 
conclusion is not committed to him ; it lies with the 
judge and the jury ; his office is ministerial : and he 
is to put forward every fair point on his side, as his op- 
ponent will, on the other side, because these are the 
very means, nay, the indispensable means, for coming 
to a righteous decision. And I say, that if he does this 
fairly and honestly, with a feeling of true self-respect, 
honour and conscience ; with a feeling that God's jus- 
tice reigns in that high tribunal ; then he is acting a 
religious part ; he is leading, that day, a religious life: 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



291 



If righteousness, if justice is any part of religion, he 
is doing so. No matter whether during all that day, 
he has once appealed, in form or in terms, to his con- 
science or not : no matter whether he has once spoken 
of religion and of God, or not ; if there has been the in- 
ward appeal, the inward purpose, the conscious intent 
and desire that justice, sacred justice should triumph, 
he has that day, led a good and religious life : and 
certainly., he has been making a most essential contri- 
bution to that religion of life and of society, the cause 
of equity between man and man, of truth and right- 
eousness in the world. 

There are certain other pursuits of an intellectual 
character, which require to be noticed in this connec- 
tion ; those, I mean, of literature and the arts. And 
the question here, let it be borne in mind, is not whether 
these pursuits are always conducted upon the highest 
principles ; but whether they are in their proper nature 
and in their justest and highest character, religious and 
good ; whether between these functions and religion 
there is any natural affinity ; whether or not in their 
legitimate tendency, they are helping to work out the 
world's salvation from vice and sin, and spiritual 
misery. And certainly, to him who is looking with 
any anxiety to the great moral end of Providence, this 
is a very serious question. For in these forms, of liter- 
ature and art. the highest genius of the world is usual- 
ly revealed. The cost of time and money to which 
they put the world, is not a small consideration. The 
laboured works of art and the means lavished to obtain 
them : the writing, printing, selling and reading of 
books ; all this presents one of the grandest features 
of our modern civilization. But the cost of mental 
labour is more than this ; it is of the very life-blood 
of the world. This great power of communication 



292 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



with men, is not only working, and putting in requisi- 
tion, much of the labour and time of the world ; but 
it is often working painfully, and is wasting the noblest 
strength, in its strenuous toils. In silent and solitary 
places, genius is often found, consuming away in the 
fires which it has kindled. And now the question is : 
on what altars, are these priceless offerings laid ? 

Let it be considered then, in answer to this question, 
how few statues, paintings or books, have any bad de- 
sign. Point me to one in an hundred, to one in a thou- 
sand or ten thousand that recommends vice. What 
then do they inculcate ? Surely it is virtue, sanctity, 
the grandeur of the spiritual part of man. What do 
we see in these works? It is in sculpture, the fearful 
beauty of the god of Light, or the severe majesty of 
the Hebrew law-giver, or the solemn dignity of the 
Christ. It is in painting, some form of moral loveli- 
ness, some saint in the rapture of devotion, or a 
Christian, constant, serene, forgiving, victorious in the 
agonies of martyrdom. It is, in writing, in fiction, in 
poetry, in the drama, some actor or sufferer, nobly sus- 
taining himself amidst temptations, difficulties, con- 
flicts and sorrows, holding on his bright career through 
clouds and storms, to the goal of virtue and of heaven ! 
Of course, I do not say that there are no moral defects 
in these representations ; but most certain it is, never- 
theless, that the highest literature and art of every age, 
embody its highest spiritual ideal of excellence. And 
even when we descend from their higher manifesta- 
tions and find them simply amusing, there is nothing 
in this that is hostile to religion. Men must have re- 
creation ; and literature and art furnish that which is 
most pure, innocent and refining. They are already 
drawing away multitudes from coarser indulgences, 
and from places of low and vile resort. And the thea- 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



293 



tre, were it purged from certain offensive appendages, 
might be one of the most admirable ministrations con- 
ceivable, to the recreation and entertainment of the 
people. Nay, a great actor, as well as a great drama- 
tist, in the legitimate walk of his art, may be a most 
effective and tremendous preacher of virtue to the 
people. 

But, to go again to the main point ; I must strenu- 
ously maintain, that books, to be of religious tenden- 
cy, to be ministers to the general piety and virtue, need 
not be books of sermons, nor books of pious exercises, 
nor books of prayers. These all have their great and 
good office to discharge ; but whatever inculcates pure 
sentiment, whatever touches the heart with the beauty 
of virtue and the blessedness of piety, is in accordance 
with religion ; and this is the Gospel of literature and 
art. Yes, and it is preached from many a wall, it is 
preached from many a book, ay, from many a poem 
and fiction and Review, and Newspaper ; and it would 
be a painful error, and a miserable narrowness, not to 
recognise these wide-spread agencies of heaven's pro- 
viding, not to see and welcome these many-handed 
coadjutors, to the great and good cause. Christianity 
has, in fact, poured a measure of its own spirit into 
these forms ; and not to recognise it there, is to deny 
its own specific character and claim. There are reli- 
gious books indeed, which may be compared to the 
solid gold of Christianity ; but many of its fairest 
gems have their setting in literature and art ; and if 
it is a pitiable blindness, not to see its beautiful spirit 
even when it is surrounded by ignorance and poverty, 
what must it be not to recognise it, when it is set in 
the richest frame-work that human genius, imagina- 
tion and art can devise for it ? 

There is one of the arts of expression, which I have 
25* 



294 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



not mentioned ; which sometimes seems to me a finer 
breathing-out of the soul than any other, and which 
certainly breathes a more immediate and inspiring tone 
into the heart of the world than any other ; I mean 
music. Eloquent writing is great ; eloquent speaking 
is greater ; but an impromptu burst of song, or strain 
of music, like one of old Beethoven's voluntaries, I am 
inclined to say, is something greater. And now when 
this wonderful power, spreads around its spell, almost 
like inspiration ; when, celebrating heroism, magna- 
nimity, pity or pure love, it touches the heart with rap- 
ture and fills the eye with tears ; is it to be accounted 
among things profane or irreligious ? Must it be heard 
in church, to be made a holy thing ? Must the words 
of its soul-thrilling utterance, be the technical words 
of religion, grace, godliness, righteousness, in order to 
mean anything divine ? No, the vocation of the really 
great singer, breathing inspirations of truth and ten- 
derness into the mind, is as holy as the vocation of the 
great preacher. In our dwellings, and in concert- 
rooms, ay, and in opera-houses — so the theme be pure 
and great — there is preachings as truly as in church 
walls. 

My brethren, give me your patience, if I must sup- 
pose that what I am saying, needs it. Do but consider 
what the great arts of mental and moral communica- 
tion, express. Are they not oftentimes, the very same 
qualities that you revere in religion ? Are goodness 7 
pity, magnanimous self-sacrifice and heroic virtue, 
less divine, because they are expressed in literature, 
in painting or in song % And when you are moved to 
admiration, to tears, at some great example of heroism 
or self-sacrifice — be it by music or dramatic representa- 
tion, — and when the same thing moves you in preach- 
ing ; are you entirely to distinguish between the cases ; 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



295 



and to say that the one feeling is profane and the 
other holy ? 

Observe that I do not ask you to revere religion less, 
but to see and to welcome new, and perhaps before un- 
thought of, instruments and agencies in the great field. 
You fear, perhaps, that they are not altogether pure. 
Then, I say, cut off and cast away the bad part ; I 
plead not for that : but none the less accept the good. 
Nay, and I might ask, is religious teaching itself, all 
pure, all right ? Indeed, I think that religion and re- 
ligious teaching, have been as much perverted and 
abused as labour, literature or art. 

It is every way most injurious and unjust to brand 
every thing as irreligious that is not specifically devot- 
ed to religion ; to deny and as it were to forbid, to 
work any good work, those who "follow not after us." 
Our Saviour rebuked his disciples in such a case ; say- 
ing, forbid them not ; " he that is not against me, is for 
me." It is a bigotry totally unworthy of the generous 
and glorious Gospel, to hold in utter distrust and dese- 
cration all the beneficent activities of the world, all its 
kindly affections, all the high purposes and sentiments 
that live both in its physical and mental toils, because 
they do not come within the narrow pale of a technical 
religion ; because they are not embraced in the mystic 
secret of what is called religious experience. All men 
are experiencing, more or less, what the Christian is ex- 
periencing. If his experience is higher and more per- 
fect, is that a reason why he shall disdain and reject 
every thing that is like it in others? As well might the 
sage, the philosopher repudiate and scorn all the com- 
mon sense and knowledge of the world. If he does so, 
we call him a bigoted and a scholastic philosopher. 
And if the Christian does so, we must call him a bigoted 
and mystic Christian. And, let me add, that if he were 



296 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



a generous and lofty-minded Christian, I cannot conceive 
what could be more distressing and mournful to him, 
than to hold all human existence, with the exception 
of his little peculiarity, to be a dark and desolate waste ; 
to see all beside, as a gloomy mass of ignorance, error, 
sin and sorrow. It is the reproduction, on Christian 
ground, of the old Jewish exclusion and bigotry. 

II. Let us now extend our view to another depart- 
ment of human life, recreation : and let us see whether 
we cannot embrace this within the great bond of reli- 
gion ; whether we cannot reclaim another lost territory 
to the highest service of man. 

The isles of refreshment ; the gardens and bowers 
of recreation; the play-grounds for sport ; somewhere 
must they lie embosomed in this great world of labour ; 
for man cannot always toil. Place for mirth and 
gayety, and wit and laughter ; somewhere must it be 
found ; for God hath made our nature to develop these 
very things. Is not this sufficient to vindicate the 
claim of recreation to be part of a good and religious life ? 

But let us look at the matter in another light. Sup- 
pose the world of men were created, and created in 
full maturity, but yesterday : and suppose it to be a 
world of beings, religious, devout, and devoutly grate- 
ful and good. The first employment that engages it, 
as a matter of necessity and of evident appointment 
too, is labour. But after some days or weeks of toil, 
it becomes acquainted with a new fact. It finds that 
incessant toil is impracticable ; that it is breaking 
down both mind and body ; in fact, that neither body 
nor mind was made for it. In short, the necessity of 
recreation becomes manifest. What then, under this 
view of the case, w T ould men do ? Social, and socially 
inclined, especially in their lighter engagements, would 
they not very naturally say, " let us devise games and 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



297 



sports, let us have music and dancing ; let us listen to 
amusing recitations or dramatic stories of life's gayety 
or grandeur ; and let us obey these tendencies and 
wants of our nature, in ever-kept, grateful veneration 
and love of Him who has made us." And if all this 
were followed out, in primeval innocence, with a reli- 
gious devoutness and gratitude, I suppose that every 
objection to it would be removed from the minds of the 
most scrupulous. 

The objection, then, lies against the abuse of these 
things. But what is the proper moral business of such 
an objection ? Is it to extirpate the things in question? 
It cannot. Games, gayeties, sports, spectacles, there 
will be ; as long as man have limbs or eyes or ears. 
It is no factitious choice which the world has made of 
its amusements. It chose them because it wanted 
them. The development here, is as natural as it is 
in the arts. You might as well talk of extirpating 
music and painting, as of driving the common amuse- 
ments out of the world. Shall the religious objection 
then, since it cannot destroy, proceed to vilify these 
amusements ? What ! vilify an ordinance of nature, 
a necessity of man, a thing that cannot be helped ? 
Is this the wisdom of religion ; to degrade what it 
cannot destroy ; to make of that which it cannot pre- 
vent, the worst that can be made ; to banish alike 
from its protection and remedy, that which it cannot ban- 
ish from the world ? There lies the garden of recreation, 
close by the field of labour ! and they cannot be severed ; 
and men must and will pass from one to the other; 
and is it the office of religion to curse that garden, to 
pronounce it unholy ground, and so to give it up to 
utter levity or license ? Nay, can any thing be plainer 
than that it is the business of religion to reform the 
amusements of the day? Reform, I believe, is the 



298 



OX HUMAN LIFE. 



only measure that can be taken with the theatre ; for 
that which has its root in the natural tastes, customs 
and literature of all civilized ages, is not likely to be 
eradicated. But how is any thing to be reformed ? 
By invective, by opprobrium, by heaping contempt 
upon it? By casting it out from the pale of good 
influences, by withdrawing good men from all contact 
with it. by consigning it over to the irreligion, frivolity 
and self-indulgence of the world ? Surely not. And 
therefore I am anxious to show that recreation must 
come within the plan of good life, and hence to show 
that it is not to be snatched as a forbidden pleasure : 
not to be distorted by the hand of reckless license ; 
but to be welcomed, ay. and consecrated, "by calm, 
conscientious, rational enjoyment 

The objection I am considering, is, that the common 
and chosen recreations of the world, are abused. If 
they were pure and innocent, it would have nothing 
to say. But what is not abused 1 Is not business, 
is not religion itself abused ? Are they therefore to be 
denounced and driven away from the sight of man J 
The objection carried oat, would reduce the whole 
world to dead silence and inaction. But this cannot 
be tolerated. We must work ; and we must do busi- 
ness ; and we must relax into gayety and sportiveness, 
when our work is done. Improvements may be 
introduced into each sphere of action, and have 
been all along, through ages ; but the sphere must 
remain : and it must remain essentially the same. 
You can no more get men to amuse themselves in 
some entirely new manner, than you can get them to do 
business, or to draw deeds, or to labour upon the arts, 
in some entirely new manner. I tell the ascetic reli- 
gionist that there will be gayety and laughter ; there 
will be assemblies and music and dancing : ay, and, 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



299 



as I think, cards and theatres^ as long as the world 
stands. Whether he like it or not ; whether / like 
it or not ; it cannot be helped. 

Now there are abuses of these things. What are 
we to say of the abuses ? " Let them crush down 
and destroy the things themselves," do we say ? But 
they cannot. Then let them be cut off. There is really 
nothing else to be done. Elevate, refine, purify the 
public amusements. Let religion recognise and restrain 
them. Let it not, as is too common, drive them to li- 
cense and extravagance ; but let it throw around them 
its gentle and holy bonds, to make them pure, cheer- 
ful, -healthful ; healthful to the great ends of life. 
What a blessed thing for the world, were it, if its 
amusements could thus be rescued, redeemed, and 
brought into the service of its virtue and piety ! What 
a blessed thing for the weary world, for the youthful 
world, for the joyous world, if the steps of its recrea- 
tion, trodden in cheerful innocence and devout grati- 
tude, could be ever leading it to heaven ! 

I have now considered two great departments of 
life ; labour, physical and mental, and recreation. 
My design has been, to rescue them from the common 
imputation of being necessarily or altogether worldly 
or irreligious; to resist the prevailing notion, that all true 
religion, all true spiritual goodness, is gathered up in 
certain and (so-called) sacred professions, peculiarities 
and places ; to show that in all the heaven-ordained 
pursuits and conditions of life, there are elements of 
good; that the Spirit is breathing its gracious influence 
through the world ; that there is a religion of life, unre- 
cognised in our ordinary religious systems, but real and 
true, and either worthy of our welcome and admiration, 
or when defective or wrong, worthy of our endeavour to 
correct and improve it. 



300 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



III. But, once more, there is a religion of society. 

This topic, let me observe, is essentially distinct 
from those which I have already discussed. It is true 
that our labour and recreation are mostly social ; but 
in the social bond, there is something more than the 
business or the amusement which takes advantage of 
it. It has a holiness, a grandeur, a sweetness of its 
own. The world, indeed, is encircled by that bond. 
And what is it ? In business, there is something more 
than barter, exchange, price, payment ; there is a 
sacred faith of man in man. When you know one in 
whose integrity you repose perfect confidence ; when 
you feel that he will not swerve from conscience for 
any temptation ; that integrity, that conscience is the 
image of God to you ; and when you believe in it, it 
is as generous and great an act, as if you believe in 
the rectitude of heaven. In gay assemblies for amuse- 
ment again ; not instruments of music, not rich 
apparel, not sumptuous entertainments, are the chief 
things ; but the gushing and mingling affections of 
life. I know what is said, and may be truly said, of 
selfishness and pride and envy in these scenes ; but 
I know too, that good affections go up to these gather- 
ing places, or they would be as desolate as the spoil- 
clad caves and dens of thieves and robbers. Look at 
two kind-hearted acquaintances meeting in those 
places, or meeting in the market or on the exchange ; 
and see the warm pressure of the hand, the kindling 
of the eye, the suffusion of the whole countenance 
with heartfelt gladness ; and tell me if there is not a 
religion between those hearts ; and true love and 
worshipping, in each other, of the true and good. It 
is not policy that spreads such a charm around that 
meeting, but the halo of bright and beautiful affection. 
It hangs, like the soft enfolding sky, over all the 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE, 



301 



world, over all places where men meet, and toil or 
walk together ; not over lovers' bowers and marriage 
altars alone, not over the homes of purity and tender- 
ness alone — yet these are in the world — but over all 
tilled fields, and busy workshops, and dusty highways, 
and paved streets. There is not a trodden stone upon 
these side-walks, but it has been an altar of such 
offerings of mutual kindness. There is not a wooden 
pillar nor an iron railing, against which throbbing 
hearts have not leaned. True, there are other 
elements in the stream of life, that is flowing" through 
these channels. But will any one dare to deny that 
this element is here and every where ; honest, heart- 
felt, disinterested, inexpressible affection? If he dare, 
let him do so, and then confess that he is a brute or a 
fiend, and not a man. But if this element is here, 
is every where, what is it ? 

To answer this question, let us ask, what is God ? 
And the Apostle answers, " God is love." And is not 
this, of which we have been speaking, love ; true, 
pure love ? Deny it, and bear upon your head, the 
indignation of all mankind. But admit it ; and 
what do you admit? That God's love is poured into 
human hearts. Yes, into human hearts ! Oh ! sad, 
sad — frail, erring, broken, are they often ; yet God's 
spirit is breathing through them ; else were they de- 
spoiled, desolate, crushed, beyond recovery, beyond 
hope. It is that same spirit of love that enshrines the 
earth and enrobes the heavens with beauty ; and if 
there were not an eye of love to see it, a heart of love 
to feel it, all nature would be the desolate abode of 
creatures as desolate. 

I know full well , alas ! that there are other things 
in life besides love. I know that in city streets, not far 
removed from us, are depths beneath depths of sorrow 
25 



302 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



and sin ; that in cellars beneath cellars, and in stories 
above stories, are crowded together poverty and 
wretchedness and filth and vileness. Oh ! desolate 
and dreary abodes ; where, through the long bright 
day, only want and toil and sorrow knock at all your 
gates, only blows of passion and shrieks of children, 
and cursings of drunkenness and oaths of the profane, 
measure out the heavy hours ! — are there no hearts to 
bleed for you? Are there no energies of love to 
interpose for you ? Shall the stream of glad and pros- 
perous life flow 7 so near you, and never come to cleanse 
out your impurities and heal your miseries? Nay, in 
that stream of glad and joyous life, I know that there 
are ingredients of evil ; the very ingredients indeed 
that prevent a consummation so blessed. I know 
that amidst gay equipages, selfishness is borne ; and 
that amidst luxurious entertainments pride is nursed 
and sensuality gorged ; and that through fair and 
fair-seeming assemblies, envy steals, and hatred and 
revenge spread their wiles ; and that many a bad 
passion casts its shade over the brightest atmosphere 
of social life. All this I know. I do not refuse to see 
the evil that is in life. But tell me not that all is evil. 
I still see God in the world. I see good amidst the 
evil. I see the hand of mercy often guiding the chariot 
of w T ealth to the abodes of poverty and sorrow. I see 
truth and simplicity amidst many wiles and sophistries. 
There is a habit of berating fashionable life, which is 
often founded more in ignorance than ill-will. Those 
w T ho know better, know that there is good every where. 
I see good hearts beneath gay robes ; ay, and beneath 
tattered robes, too. I see love clasping the hand of 
love, amidst all the envyings and distortions of showy 
competition ; and I see fidelity, piety, sympathy, hold- 
ing the long night-w T atch, by the bed-side of a suffer- 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



303 



ing neighbour, amidst all surrounding poverty and 
misery. God bless the kindly office, the pitying 
thought, the loving heart, wherever it is ! — and it is 
every where ! 

Why, my Brethren, do I insist upon this ? Why do 
I endeavour to spread life before you in a new light ; 
in a light not recognised by most of our religious sys- 
tems ? I will endeavour, in few w T ords, to tell you. 

I am made to be affected, in many respects, by the 
consciousness of what is passing around me, but espe- 
cially in my happiness and my improvement. I am 
more than an inhabitant of the world ; I am a sympa- 
thizing member of the great human community. Its 
condition comes as a blessing, or weighs as a burthen, 
upon my single thought. It is a discouragement or 
an excitement, to all that is good and happy within 
me. If I dwell in this world as in a prison ; if the 
higher faith, the religion of my being, compels me to 
regard it in this light ; if all its employments are prison 
employments, mere penal tasks or drudgeries to keep 
its tenants out of mischief; if all its ingenious handi- 
crafts are but prison arts and contrivances to while 
away the time; if all its relations are prison relations, 
relations of dislike or selfishness, or of compact and 
cunning in evil ; if the world is such a place, it must 
be a gloomy and unholy place, a dark abode, a wilder- 
ness world : yes, though its walls were built of massive 
gold and its dome were spread with sapphire and stud- 
ded with diamond-stars, I must look upon it with sad- 
ness ; I must look upon its inhabitants with coldness, 
distrust and disdain. It is a picture which I have 
drawn ; but it is mainly a picture of the world as 
viewed by the prevailing religion of our time. Nay, 
more ; from this prison, it deems that thousands are 
daily carried to execution — plunged into a lake of fire 



304 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



— there to burn forever. And if the belief of its vota- 
ries actually came up to its creed, gayety and joyousness 
in such a world, would be more misplaced and shock- 
ing a thousand times, than they would be in the 
gloomiest penitentiary that ever was builded. Is this 
fair and bright world — is God's world, such a place ? 
If it is, I am sure that it was not made for any rational 
and reflective happiness ; but mountain to mountain, 
and continent to continent, and age to age, should 
echo nothing but sighs and groans. 

But if this world, instead of being a prison, is a 
school ; if all its appointed tasks are teachings ; if all 
its ordained employments are fit means for improve- 
ment, and all its proper amusements are the good 
recreations of virtuous toil and endeavour ; if, however 
perverse and sinful men are, there is an element of 
good in all their lawful pursuits, and a diviner breath- 
ing in all their lawful affections ; if the ground whereon 
they tread i& holy ground ; if there is a natural reli- 
gion of life, answering, with however many a broken 
tone, to the religion of nature ; if there is a beauty 
and glory of humanity, answering, with however 
many a mingled shade, to the loveliness of soft land- 
scapes and embosoming hills and the overhanging 
glory of the deep, blue heavens ; then all is changed. 
And it is changed not more for happiness than it is 
for virtue. 

For then do men find that they may be virtuous, 
improving, religious, in their employments ; that this 
is precisely what their employments were made for. 
Then will they find that all their social relations — 
friendship, love, family ties — were made to be holy. 
Then will they find that they may be religious, not by 
a kind of protest and resistance against their several 
vocations, but by conformity to their true spirit ; that 



THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



305 



their vocations do not exclude religion, but demand it 
for their own perfection ; that they may be religious 
labourers, whether in field or factory ; religious physi- 
cians and lawyers : religious sculptors, painters and 
musicians ; that they may be religious in all the toils 
and amusements of life ; that their life may be a reli- 
gion ; the broad earth, its altar ; its incense, the very 
breath of life : and its fires kindled, ever kindled by 
the brightness of heaven. 
26* 



XX. 



THE VOICES OF THE DEAD. 

AND BY IT, HE BEING DEAD, YET SPEAKETH. — Hebrews XI. 4- 

This is a record of virtue that existed six thousand 
years ago ; but which yet liveth in its memory, and 
speaketh in its example. " Abel, it is written, offered 
unto God a more excellent sacrifice than Cain, by 
which he obtained witness, that he was righteous, God 
testifying of his gifts ; and by it, he being dead, yet 
speaketh." How enduring is the memorial of good- 
ness ! It is but a sentence, which is read in a moment ; 
it is but a leaf from the scroll of time ; and yet, it is 
borne on the breath of ages ; it takes the attributes 
of universality and eternity ; it becomes a heritage, 
from family to family, among all the dwellings of the 
world. 

But it is not Abel alone, the accepted worshipper 
and martyred brother, that thus speaks to us. The 
world is filled with the voices of the dead. They 
speak not from the public records of the great world 
only, but from the private history of our own expe- 
rience. They speak to us in a thousand remembrances, 
in a thousand incidents, events, associations. They 
speak to us, not only from their silent graves, but from 
the throng of life. Though they are invisible, yet life 
is filled with their presence. They are with us, by the 
silent fireside and in the secluded chamber : they are 
with us in the paths of society, and in the crowded 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 



307 



assemblies of men. They speak to us from the lonely 
way-side ; and they speak to us, from the venerable 
walls that echo to the steps of a multitude, and to the 
voice of prayer. Go where we will, the dead are with 
us. We live, we converse with those, who once lived 
and conversed with us. Their well-remembered tone 
mingles with the whispering breezes, with the sound 
of the falling leaf, with the jubilee shout of the spring- 
time. The earth is filled with their shadowy train. 

But there are more substantial expressions of the 
presence of the dead with the living. The earth is 
filled with the labours, the works, of the dead. Al- 
most all the literature in the world, the discoveries 
of science, the glories of art, the ever-enduring temples, 
the dwelling-places of generations, the comforts and 
improvements of life, the languages, the maxims, the 
opinions of the living, the very frame-work of society, 
the institutions of nations, the fabrics of empire — all 
are the works of the dead : by these, they who are dead 
yet speak. Life ; busy, eager, craving, importunate, 
absorbing life ; yet what is its sphere, compared with 
the empire of death ! What, in other words, is the 
sphere of visible, compared with the vast empire of 
invisible, life ! A moment in time ; a speck in im- 
mensity ; a shadow amidst enduring and unchangeable 
realities ; a breath of existence amidst the ages and 
regions of undying life ! They live — they live indeed, 
whom we call dead. They live in our thoughts ; 
they live in our blessings ; they live in our life : "death 
hath no power over them." 

Let us then meditate upon those, the mighty com- 
pany of our departed brethren, who occupy such a 
space in the universe of being. Let us meditate upon 
their relation, their message, their ministry, to us. Let 
us look upon ourselves in this relation, and see what 



308 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



we owe to the dead. Let us look upon the earth, and 
see if death hath not left behind its desolating career, 
some softer traces, some holier imprint, than of de- 
struction. 

I. What memories, then, have the dead left among 
us, to stimulate us to virtue, to win us to goodness ? 

The approach to death often prepares the way for 
this impression. The effect of a last sickness to de- 
velop and perfect the virtues of our friends, is often 
so striking and beautiful, as to seem more than a 
compensation for all the sufferings of disease. It is 
the practice of the Catholic Church to bestow upon 
its eminent saints, a title to the perpetual homage of 
the faithful, in the act of canonization. But what is 
a formal decree, compared with the effect of a last 
sickness, to canonize the virtue that we love, for eternal 
remembrance and admiration ? How often does that 
touching decay, that gradual unclothing of the mortal 
body, seem to be a putting on of the garments of im- 
mortal beauty and life ! That pale cheek, that placid 
brow, that sweet serenity spread over the whole coun- 
tenance ; that spiritual, almost supernatural brightness 
of the eye, as if light from another world already shone 
through it ; that noble and touching disinterestedness 
of the parting spirit, which utters no complaint, which 
breathes no sigh, which speaks no word of fear nor 
apprehension to wound its friend, which is calm, and 
cheerful, and natural, and self-sustained, amidst daily 
declining strength and the sure approach to death ; 
and then, at length, when concealment is no longer 
possible, that last firm, triumphant, consoling discourse, 
and that last look of all mortal tenderness and im- 
mortal trust ; what hallowed memories are these to 
soothe, to purify, to enrapture surviving love ! 

Death, too, sets a seal upon the excellence, that 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 



309 



sickness unfolds and consecrates. There is no living 
virtue, concerning which, such is our frailty, we must 
not fear that it may fall ; or at least, that it may 
somewhat fail from its steadfastness. It is a painful, 
it is a just fear, in the bosoms of the best and purest 
beings on earth, that some dreadful lapse may come 
over them, or over those whom they hold in the highest 
reverence. But death, fearful, mighty as its power, is 
yet a power, that is subject to virtue. It gives victory 
to virtue. It brings relief to the heart, from its pro- 
foundest fear. It enables us to say, " now all is safe ! 
The battle is fought ; the victory is won. The course 
is finished ; the race is run ; the faith is kept : hence- 
forth, it is no more doubt nor danger, no more tempta- 
tion nor strife; henceforth is the reward of the just, 
the crown which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will 
give !' Yes, death, dark power of earth though it 
seem, does yet ensphere virtue, as it were, in heaven. 
It sets it up on high, for eternal admiration. It fixes 
its places never more to be changed ; as a star to 
shine onward, and onward, through the depths of the 
everlasting ages ! 

In life there are many things which interfere with a 
just estimate of the virtues of others. There are, in 
some cases, jealousies and misconstructions, and there 
are false appearances ; there are veils upon the heart 
that hide its most secret workings and its sweetest 
affections from us ; there are earthly clouds that come 
between us and the excellence that we love. So that 
it is not, perhaps, till a friend is taken from us, that we 
entirely feel his value, and appreciate his worth. The 
vision is loveliest at its vanishing away ; and we per- 
ceive not, perhaps, till we see the parting wing, that 
an angel has been with us ! 

Yet if we are not, from any cause, or in any degree. 



310 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



blind to the excellence we possess, if we do feel all the 
value of the treasure which our affections hold dear : 
yet, I say, how does that earthly excellence take not 
only a permanent, but a saintly character, as it passes 
beyond the bounds of mortal frailty and imperfection ! 
How does death enshrine it, for a homage, more reve- 
rential and holy, than is ever given to living worth ! 
So that the virtues of the dead gain, perhaps, in the 
power of sanctity, what they lose in the power of 
visible presence ; and thus — it may not be too much to 
say — thus the virtues of the dead benefit us some- 
times, as much as the examples of living goodness. 

How beautiful is the ministration, by which those 
who are dead, thus speak to us, thus help us, comfort 
us, guide, gladden, bless us ! How grateful must it be 
to their thoughts of us, to know that we thus remember 
them ; that we remember them, not with mere admi- 
ration, but in a manner that ministers to all our virtues ! 
What a glorious vision of the future is it, to the good 
and pure who are yet living on earth, that the virtues 
which they are cherishing and manifesting, the good 
character which they are building up here, the charm 
of their benevolence and piety, shall live, when they 
have laid down the burthen and toil of life, shall be an 
inspiring breath to the fainting hearts that are broken 
from them, a wafted odour of sanctity to hundreds 
and thousands that shall come after them. Is it not 
so? Are there not those, the simplest story, the 
frailest record of whose goodness, is still and ever, 
doing good? But, frail records, we know full well, 
frail records they are not, which are in our hearts. 
And can we have known those, whom it is a joy as 
well as a sorrow to think of. and not be better for it? 
Are there those, once, our friends, now bright angels 
in some blessed sphere; and do we not sometimes 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 



311 



say, " perhaps, that pure eye of affection is on me 
now : and I will do nothing to wound it ? M No 3 surely, 
it cannot be. that the dead will speak to us in vain. 
Their memories are all around us : their footsteps are in 
our paths ; the memorials of them meet our eye at 
every turn ; their presence is in our dwellings : their 
voices are in our ears : they speak to us — in the sad 
reverie of contemplation, in the sharp pang of feeling, 
in the cold shadow of memory, in the bright li^ht of 
hope — and it cannot be. that they will speak in vain. 

II. Nay. the very world we live in ; is it not con- 
secrated to us by the memory of the dead ? Are not 
the yery scenes of life made more interesting to us, by 
being connected with thoughts that run backward far 
beyond the range of present life ? This is another 
view of the advantage and effect with which those 
who are " dead, yet speak to us.' 5 

If we were beings to whom, present, immediate, 
instant enjoyment were every thing : if we were ani- 
mals, in other words, with all our thoughts prone to 
the earth on which we tread, the case would be differ- 
ent : the conclusion would be different. But we are 
beings of a deeper nature, of wider relations, of higher 
aspirations, of a loftier destiny. And being such, I 
cannot hesitate to say for myself, that I would not 
have every thing which I behold on earth, the work 
of the present, living generation. The world would 
be, comparatively, an ordinary, indifferent place, if it 
contained nothing but the workmanship, the handi- 
craft, the devices of living men. No, I would see 
dwellings, which speak to me of other things, than 
earthly conyenience, or fleeting pleasure : which speak 
to me the holy recollections of lives which were pass- 
ed in them, and have passed away from them. I 
would see temples in which successiye generations of 



312 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



men have prayed. I would see ruins, on whose mighty 
walls is inscribed the touching story of joy and sorrow, 
love, heroism, patience, which lived there, there 
breathed its first hope, its last sigh, ages ago. I would 
behold scenes, which offer more than fair landscape and 
living stream to my eye ; which tell me of inspired 
genius, glorious fortitude, martyred faith, that studied 
there, suffered there, died there. I would behold the 
earth, in fine, when it is spread before me, as more 
than soil and scenery, rich and fair though they be ; 
1 would behold the earth as written over with histories ; 
as a sublime page, on which are recorded the lives of 
men, and empires. 

The world, even of nature, is not one laughing, gay 
scene. It is not so in fact ; it appears not so in the 
light of our sober, solemn, Christian teachings. The 
dark cloud sometimes overshadows it : the storm sweeps 
through its pleasant valleys; the thunder smites its 
everlasting hills ; and the holy record hath said, 
" thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee." It 
has been said that all the tones in nature are, to use 
the musical phrase, on the minor key. That is to say, 
they are plaintive tones. And although the fact is 
probably somewhat exaggerated, when stated so 
strongly and unqualifiedly, yet to a certain extent it is 
true. It is true, that that tone always mingles with 
the music of nature. In the winds that stir the moun- 
tain pine, as well as in the wailing storm ; in the soft- 
falling shower, and in the rustling of the autumn 
leaves ; in the roar of ocean, as it breaks upon the 
lonely sea-beach ; in the thundering cataract, that lifts 
up its eternal anthem amidst the voices of nature ; and 
so likewise, in those inarticulate interpretations of 
nature, the bleating of flocks, the lowing of herds, and 
even in the song of birds, there is usually something 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 



313 



plaintive : something' that touches the sad and brood- 
ing spirit of thought. And the contemplation of na- 
ture in all its forms, as well of beauty as of sublimity, 
is apt to be tinged with melancholy. And all the 
higher musings, the nobler aspirations of the mind, 
possess something of this character. I doubt if there 
were ever a manifestation of genius in the world, that 
did not bear something of this trait. 

It can scarcely be the part of wisdom, then, to refuse 
to sympathize with this spirit of nature and humanity. 
And it can be no argument against a contemplation 
of this world as having its abodes sanctified by the 
memory of the departed, as having its brightness softly 
veiled over by the shadow of death : it can be no argu- 
ment against such contemplation, that it is somewhat 
sober and sad. I feel then, that the dead have con- 
ferred a blessing upon me. in helping me to think of 
the world thus rightly : in thus giving a hue of sad- 
ness to the scenes of this world, while, at the same 
time, they have clothed it with every glorious and 
powerful charm of association. This mingled spirit 
of energy and humility, of triumph and tenderness, 
of glorying and sorrowing, is the very spirit of Christi- 
anity. It was the spirit of Jesus, the conqueror and 
the sufferer. Death was before him : and yet his 
thoughts were of triumph. Victory was in his view ; 
and yet, what a victory ! jSo laurel crown was upon 
his head : no flush of pride was upon his brow ; no 
exultation flashed from his eye : for his was a victory 
to be gained over death, and through death. No 
laurel crown sat upon his head- — but a crown of thorns , 
no flush of pride was on his brow— but meekness was 
enthroned there : no exultation flashed from his eye — 
but tears flowed from it : "'Jesus wept." 

Come then, to us. that spirit at once of courage and 
.27 



314 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



meekness ; of fortitude and gentleness ; of a life hope- 
ful and happy, but thoughtful of death : of a world 
bright and beautiful, but passing away ! So let us 
live, and act ; and think, and feel ; and let us thank 
the good providence, the good ordination of heaven, 
that has made the dead our teachers. 

III. But they teach us more. They not only leave 
their own enshrined and canonized virtues for us to 
love and imitate ; they not only gather about us the 
glorious and touching associations of the past, to hal- 
low and dignify this world to us, and to throw the soft 
veil of memory over all its scenes ; but they open a 
future world to our vision, and invite us to its blessed 
abodes. 

They open that world to us, by giving, in their own 
deaths, a strong proof of its existence. 

The future, indeed, to mere earthly views, is often 
" a land of darkness as darkness itself, and of the 
shadow of death without any order, and where the 
light is as darkness." Truly, death is " without any 
order." There is in it, such a total disregard to cir- 
cumstances, as shows that it cannot be an ultimate 
event. That must be connected with something else ; 
that cannot be final, which, considered as final, puts 
?11 the calculations of wisdom so utterly at defiance. 
r j he tribes of animals, the classes and species of the 
vegetable creation, come to their perfection, and then 
die. But is there any such order for human beings? 
Po the generations of mankind go down to the grave, 
in ranks snd processions ? Are the human, like the 
vegetable races, suffered to stand till they have made 
provision for their successors, before they depart? 
No ; without order, without discrimination, without 
provision for the future, or remedy for the past, the 
children of men depart. They die — the old, the 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 



315 



young ; the most useless, and those most needed ; the 
worst and the best, alike die ; and if there be no 
scenes beyond this life, if there be no circumstances 
nor allotments to explain the mystery, then all around 
us is. as it was to the doubting spirit of Job, "a land 
of darkness as darkness itself." The blow falls, like 
the thunder-bolt beneath the dark cloud ; but it has 
not even the intention, the explanation that belongs 
to that dread minister. The stroke of death must be 
more reckless than even the lightning's flash ; yes, 
that solemn visitation that cometh with so many dread 
signs — the body's dissolution, the spirit's extremity, 
the winding up of the great scene of life, has not 
even the meaning that belongs to the blindest agents 
in nature, if there be no reaction, no revelation here- 
after ! Can this be ? Doth God take care for things 
animate and inanimate, and will he not care for us 1 
Let us look at it for a moment. I have seen one 
die — the delight of his friends, the pride of his kindred, 
the hope of his country : but he died ! How beautiful 
was that offering upon the altar of death ! The fire 
of genius kindled in his eye : the generous affections 
of youth mantled in his cheek ; his foot was upon the 
threshold of life : his studies, his preparations for 
honoured and useful life, were completed : his breast 
was filled with a thousand 2flowing\ and noble, and 
never yet expressed aspirations : but he died ! He 
died; while another, of a nature dull, coarse and 
unrefined, of habits low, base and brutish, of a promise 
that had nothing in it but shame and misery — such 
an one, T say, was suffered to encumber the earth. 
Could this be, if there were no other sphere for the 
gifted, the aspiring and the approved, to act in? Can 
we believe that the energy just trained for action, the 
embryo thought just bursting into expression, the deep 



316 ON HUMAN LIFE. 

and earnest passion of a noble nature, just swelling 
into the expansion of every beautiful virtue, should 
never manifest its power, should never speak, should 
never unfold itself? Can we believe that all this 
should die ; while meanness, corruption, sensuality, 
and every deformed and dishonoured power, should 
live ? No, ye goodly and glorious ones ! ye godlike 
in youthful virtue ! ye die not in vain : ye teach, ye 
assure us, that ye are gone to some world of nobler 
life and action. 

I have seen one die ; she was beautiful ; and beau- 
tiful were the ministries of life that were given her to 
fulfil. Angelic loveliness enrobed her ; and a grace 
as if it were caught from heaven, breathed in every 
tone, hallowed every affection, shone in every action — 
invested as a halo, her whole existence, and made it 
a light and blessing, a charm and a vision of gladness, 
to all around her : but she died ! Friendship, and 
love, and parental fondness, and infant weakness, 
stretched out their hand to save her ; but they could 
not save her: and she died ! What! did all that love- 
liness die ? Is there no land of the blessed and the 
lovely ones, for such to live in? Forbid it reason, 
religion ! — bereaved affection, and undying love ! for- 
bid the thought ! It cannot be that such die in God's 
counsel, who live even in frail human memory forever ! 

I have seen one die — in the maturity of every 
power, in the earthly perfection of every faculty ; 
when many temptations had been overcome, and 
many hard lessons had been learned ; when many 
experiments had made virtue easy, and had given a 
facility to action, and a success to endeavour ; when 
wisdom had been learnt from many mistakes, and a 
skill had been laboriously acquired in the use of 
many powers ; and the being, I looked upon, had just 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 



317 



compassed that most useful, most practical of all 
knowledge, how to live, and to act well and wisely : 
yet I have seen such an one die ! Was all this treasure 
gained, only to be lost ? Were all these faculties 
trained, only to be thrown into utter disuse? Was 
this instrument, the intelligent soul, the noblest in the 
universe ; was it so laboriously fashioned, and by the 
most varied and expensive apparatus, that on the 
very moment of being finished, it should be cast away 
forever ? No, the dead, as we call them, do not so 
die. They carry our thoughts to another and a nobler 
existence. They teach us, and especially by all the 
strange and seemingly untoward circumstances of 
their departure from this life, that they, and we, shall 
live forever. They open the future world, then, to 
our faith. 

They open it also, and in fine, to our affections. 
No person of reflection and piety can have lived long, 
without beginning to find, in regard to the earthly ob- 
jects which most interest him, his friends, that the 
balance is gradually inclining in favour of another 
world. How T many, after the middle period of life, 
and especially in declining years, must feel, if the 
experience of life has had any just effect upon them, 
that the objects of their strongest attachment are not 
here. One by one, the ties of earthly affection are 
cut asunder ; one by one, friends, companions, children, 
parents, are taken from us ; for a time, perhaps, we 
are " in a strait betwixt two," as was the apostle, not 
deciding altogether whether it is better to depart ; but 
shall we not, at length, say with the disciples, when 
some dearer friend is taken, " let us go and die with 
him ?" 

The dead have not ceased their communication 
with us, though the visible chain is broken. If they 
27* 



318 



ON HUMAN LIFE. 



are still the same, they must still think of us. As two 
friends on earth, may know that they love each other, 
without any expression, without even the sight of each 
other : as they may know though dwelling in different 
and distant countries, without any visible chain of 
communication, that their thoughts meet and mingle 
together, so may it be with two friends of whom the 
one is on earth, and the other is in heaven. Especial- 
ly where there is such an union of pure minds that it 
is scarcely possible to conceive of separation, that 
union seems to be a part of their very being : we may 
believe that their friendship, their mutual sympathy, 
is beyond the power of the grave to break up. " But 
ah ! we say, if there were only some manifestations ; 
if there were only a glimpse of that blessed land ; if 
there were, indeed, some messenger bird, such as is 
supposed in some countries to come from the spirit 
land, how eagerly should we question it!" In the 
words of the poet, we should say, 

" But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain, 

Can those who have loved, forget ? 

We call — but they answer not again — 

Do they love, do they love us yet ? 

We call them far, through the silent night, 

And they speak not from cave nor hill ; 

We know, we know, that their land is bright, 

But say, do they love there still ?" 

The poetic doubt, we may answer with plain reason- 
ing, and plainer scripture. We may say, in the lan- 
guage of reason, if they live there, they love there. 
We may answer in the language of Jesus Christ, " he 
that liveth and believeth in me, shall never die." And 
ao-ain : u have ve not read." saith our Saviour, " that 
which was spoken unto you by God, saying, I am the 
God of Abraham, and the God of Tsaac, and the God 
of Jacob ? God is not the God of the dead, but of the ' 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 



319 



living. 5 ' Then it is true, that they live there ; and 
they vet speak to us. From that bright sphere, from 
that calm region, from the bowers of life immortal, 
they speak to us. They say to us, " sigh not in de- 
spair over the broken and defeated expectations of 
earth. Sorrow not as those who have no hope. Bear 
calmly and cheerfully thy lot. Brighten the chain of 
love, of sympathy ; of communion with all pure minds, 
on earth and in heaven. Think, Oh ! think of the 
mighty and glorious company that fill the immor- 
tal regions. Light, life, beauty, beatitude, are here. 
Come, children of earth ! come to the bright and 
blessed land !" I see no lovely features, revealing 
themselves through the dim and shadowy veils of 
heaven. I see no angel forms enrobed with the bright 
clouds of eventide. But "I hear a voice, saying, 
write, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for 
they rest — for they rest, from their labours, and their 
works, works of piety and love recorded in our hearts 
and kept in eternal remembrance — their works do fol- 
low them.*' Our hearts, their workmanship, do follow 
them. We will go and die with them. We will go 
and live with them forever ! 

Can I leave these meditations, my brethren, without 
paying homage to that religion which has brought life 
and immortality to light ; without calling to mind that 
simple and touching acknowledgment of the great 
apostle, u I thank God through our Lord Jesus Christ." 
Ah ! how desolate must be the affections of a people, 
that spurn this truth and trust ! I have wandered 
among the tombs of such a people : I have wandered 
through that far-famed cemetery, that overlooks from 
its mournful brow, the gay and crowded metropolis of 
France ; but among the many inscriptions upon those 
tombs, I read scarcely one ; I read, — to state so strik- 



320 



ON HUMAN LIFE, 



ing a fact with numerical exactness — I read not more 
than four or five inscriptions in the whole Pere La 
Chaise, which made any consoling reference to a future 
life. I read, on those cold marble tombs, the lamen- 
tations of bereavement, in every affecting variety of 
phrase. On the tomb of youth, it was written that 
" its broken-hearted parents, who spent their days in 
tears and their nights in anguish, had laid down here 
their treasure and their hope." On the proud mauso- 
leum where friendship, companionship, love, had de- 
posited their holy relics, it was constantly written, " Her 
husband inconsolable f " His disconsolate wife " A 
brother left alone and unhappy*' has raised this monu- 
ment ; but seldom, so seldom that scarcely ever, did 
the mournful record close with a word of hope ; scarce- 
ly at all was it to be read amidst the marble silence of 
that world of the dead, that there is a life beyond ; 
and that surviving friends hope for a blessed meeting 
again, where death comes no more ! 

Oh! death! dark hour to hopeless unbelief ! hour 
to which, in that creed of despair, no hour shall suc- 
ceed ! being's last hour ! to whose appalling darkness, 
even the shadows of an avenging retribution were 
brightness and relief ; death ! what art thou to the 
Christian's assurance ? Great hour of answer to life's 
prayer ; great hour that shall break asunder the bond 
of life's mystery; hour of release from life's burden ; 
hour of reunion with the loved and lost ; what mighty 
hopes, hasten to their fulfilment in thee ! What long- 
ings, what aspirations, — breathed in the still night be- 
neath the silent stars ; what dread emotions of curiosi- 
ty ; what deep meditations of joy ; what hallowed 
imaginings of never experienced purity and bliss ; 
what possibilities, shadowing forth unspeakable reali- 
ties to the soul, all verge to their consummation in thee S 



VOICES OF THE DEAD, 



321 



Oh ! death ! the Christian's death ! what art thou, but 
the gate of life, the portal of heaven, the threshold of 
eternity ! 

Thanks be to God ; let us say it, Christians ! in the 
comforting words of holy scripture : " thanks be to 
God who giveth us the victory, through our Lord 
Jesus Christ !" What hope can be so precious as the 
hope in him ? What emblems can speak to bereaved 
affection, or to dying frailty, like those emblems at 
once of suffering and triumph, which proclaim a cru- 
cified and risen Lord ; which proclaim that Jesus the 
Forerunner, has passed through death, to immortal 
life ? "Well, that the great truth should be signalized 
and sealed upon our heart by a holy rite ! Well, that 
amidst mortal changes, and hasting to the tomb, we 
should, from time to time, set up an altar, and say, 
" by this heaven-ordained token, do we know that we 
shall live forever !" God grant the fulfilment of this 
great hope — what matter all things beside ? — God 
grant the fulfilment of this great hope, through Jesus 
Christ ! 



ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



XXI. 

THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS, AND 
WITH A GOOD LIFE. 

IP A MAN SAY, I LOVE GOD, AND HATETH HIS BROTHER, HE IS A LIAR J FOR 
HE THAT LOVETH NOT HIS BROTHER WHOM HE HATH SEEN, HOW CAN HB 
LOVE GOD WH9M HE HATH NOT SEEN ? — 1 John iv. 24. 

If there is any mission for the true teacher to ac- 
complish in this age, it is to identify religion with 
goodness ; to show that they are the same thing, 
manifestations, that is to say ? of the same principle ; 
to show, in other words and according to the Apostle, 
that no man is to be accounted a lover of God, who is 
not a lover of his brother. It is, I say again, to iden- 
tify religion with morals, religion with virtue ; with 
justice, truth, integrity, honesty, generosity, disinterest- 
edness ; religion with the highest beauty and loveli- 
ness of character. This, I repeat, is the great mission, 
and message of the true teacher to-day. What it may 
be some other day, what transcendental thing may be 
waiting to be taught, I do not know ; but this, I con- 
ceive, is the practical business of religious instruction 
now. Let me not be misunderstood, as if I were sup- 
posed to say that this or any other mere doctrine, were 
the ultimate end of preaching. That is, to make men 
holy. But how shall any preaching avail to make 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 323 

men holy, unless it do rightly and clearly teach them 
what it is to be holy? If they mistake here, all their 
labour to be religious, all their hearing of the word, 
Sabbath keeping, praying, and striving, will be in vain. 
And therefore, I hold that to teach this, and especially 
to show that religion is not something else than a good 
heart, but is that very thing ; this, I say, is the burden 
of the present time. 

I use now an old prophetic phrase, and I may re- 
mark here, that every time has its burden. In the 
times of the Old Testament, the burden of teaching 
was, to assert the supremacy and spirituality of God, 
in opposition to Idolatry. In the Christian time, it was 
to set forth that universal and impartial, and that most 
real and true love which God has for his earthly crea- 
tures, in opposition to Jewish peculiarity and Pagan 
indifference and all human distrust ; a love, declared 
by one who came from the bosom of the Father, seal- 
ed in his blood, and thus bringing nigh to God, a guilty, 
estranged, and unbelieving world. The burden of 
the Reformation time, was to assert the freedom of re- 
ligion ; to bring it out from the bondage of human 
authority into the sanctuary of private judgment and 
sacred conscience. But now, religion having escaped 
from Pagan idolatry and Jewish exclusion and papal 
bondage, and survived many a controversy since, has 
encountered- a deeper question concerning its own na- 
ture. What especially is religion itself? This, I say, 
is the great question of the present day. It underlies 
all our controversies. It is that which gives the main 
interest to every controversy. For whether the con- 
troversy be about forms or creeds, the vital question is, 
whether this or that ritual or doctrine ministers es- 
sentially to true religion ; so that if a man embraces 
some other system, he is fatally deficient of the vital 



324 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



means of salvation. And this brings us to the ques- 
tion, what is true religion itself? 

This question, as I have intimated, presses mainly 
upon a single point, which I will now state and argue 
as a contested point : viz. whether religion, in its es- 
sence, consists in a principle of rectitude, of goodness, 
in a simple and true love of the true and divine, or 
whether it consists in something else ; or in other 
words — whether it consists in certain intelligible af- 
fections, or in something, to the mass of men, unknown 
and unintelligible. 

This question craves some explanation, both that 
you may understand what it is, and may perceive 
that it is a question ; and I must bespeak your pa- 
tience. 

In entering upon these points, let us consider, in the 
first place, what is the ground on which the general 
assertion in our text proceeds. 

There is, then, but one true principle in the mind, 
and that is the love of the true, the right, the holy. 
There is but one character of the soul, to which God 
has given his approbation, and with which he has con- 
nected the certainty of happiness here and hereafter. 
There is something in the soul which is made the con- 
dition of its salvation ; and that something is one 
thing, though it has many forms. It is sometimes 
called grace in the heart ; sometimes, holiness, right- 
eousness, conformity to the character of God ; but the 
term for it most familiar in popular use, is religion. 
The constant question is, when a man's spiritual safety 
or well-being is the point for consideration, when he is 
going to die, and men would know whether he is to be 
happy hereafter ; has he got religion ? or has he been 
a religious man ? I must confess that I do not like this 
use of the term. I am accustomed to consider religion 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 325 

as reverence and love towards God ; and to consider it 
therefore, as only one part of rectitude or excellence. 
But you know that it commonly stands for the whole 
of that character which God requires of us. Now 
what I am saying is. that this character is. in principle, 
one thing. It is. being right ; and being right is but 
one thing. It has many forms : but only one essence. 
It may be the love of God, and then it is piety. It 
may be the love of men, and then it is philanthropy. 
But the love of God, and the love of man as bearing 
his image, are in essence the same thing. Or to dis- 
criminate with regard to this second table of the law : 
it may be a love of men's happiness, and then it is the 
very image of God's benevolence ; or it may be the 
love of holiness in men, of their goodness, justice, 
truth, virtue, and then it is a love of the same things 
that form, when infinitely exalted, the character of 
God. All these forms of excellence, if they cannot be 
resolved into one principle, are certainly parts of one 
great consciousness, the consciousness of right : they 
at any rate have the strictest alliance : they are insep- 
arably bound together as parts of one whole ; the very 
nature of true excellence in one form, is a pledge for 
its existence in every other form. He who has the 
right principle in him, is a lover of God, and a lover 
of good men. and a lover of all goodness and purity, 
and a labourer for the happiness of all around him. 
The tree is one, though the branches and the leaves and 
the blossoms, be many and various ; all spring from 
one vital germ : so that the Apostle, in our text, will 
not allow it to be said, that a man is a lover of God, 
who does not love his brethren of the human family. 

Now it may surprise you at first, to hear it asserted 
that this apparently reasonable account of the matter, 
does not accord with the popular judgment. To this 
28 



326 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



point of explanation, therefore, I must invite your 
attention, lest I seem to fight as one that beateth the 
air. 

It is true then, that it is admitted in general, that 
the Christian, the object of God's favour here and here- 
after, must be a good man ; a just, honest, pure, bene- 
volent man. These admissions are general and vague. 
We must penetrate into this matter, with some more 
discriminating inquiry. What is it, specifically, that 
makes a man spiritually a Christian, and entitles him 
to hope for future happiness ? The common answer 
is ; it is religion, it is piety, it is grace in the heart, it is 
being converted, it is being in Christ, and being a new 
creature. These phrases I might comment upon, if 
I had time, and I might show that they have a very 
true and just meaning. But what is the meaning that 
they actually convey to most hearers ? What is this 
inmost and saving principle of religion, this grace or 
godliness, this spirit of the regenerated man ? Is it 
not something peculiar to the regenerate — not some- 
thing more of goodness in them than in other men, 
but something different in them from goodness in 
others ? Is it not something possessed by them alone, 
unshared with the rest of the world, unknown, com- 
pletely unknown, and in fact inconceivable to the great 
body of mankind? Are not the saints, God's people 
as they are called, supposed to have some secret of ex- 
perience wrapped up in them, with which the stranger 
intermeddleth not ; of which the world knoweth 
nothing ? I do not wish to have this so understood 
if it is not true. Bat if it is true, it is too serious a 
point to be tampered with or treated with any fastidi- 
ous delicacy. I say then plainly and earnestly, is it 
not true ? If you ask most men around you what is 
that gracious state of the heart, which is produced by 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION "WITH GOODNESS. 327 



the act of regeneration, will they not say that they do 
not know ? And all that they can say about it. pro- 
vided they have any serious thoughts, will it not be 
this: that they hope they shall know sometime or 
other ? But they know what truth, kindness, honesty, 
self-denial, disinterestedness are. They know, or sup- 
pose that they know, what penitence, sorrow for doing 
wrong, is. Gratitude to God, also, the love of God, 
they deem, is no enigma to them. They certainly 
have some idea of these qualities. I do not say how 
much by experience, they know of all these things : 
but I say they have some idea of what these things 
mean. If then they are told, and if they believe, that 
all this does not reach to the true idea of religion, it 
follows that religion must be, in their account, some 
enigma or mystery ; it is some inconceivable effect of 
divine grace, or moving of gracious affections in the 
heart ; it must be something different from all that 
men are wont to call goodness, excellence, loveliness. 

But to make this still plainer, if need be ; what, let 
it be asked, are most men looking for and desiring, 
when they seek religion? In a Revival of religion, as 
it is termed, what is the anxious man seeking ? Is it 
not something as completely strange and foreign to his 
ordinary experience, as would be the effect of the 
mystery called Animal Magnetism? A man is de- 
clining into the vale of years, or he is lying upon the 
bed of death, and he wants religion, wants that some- 
thing which will prepare him for a happy hereafter. 
He has got beyond the idea that the priest can save 
him, or that extreme unction can save him, or that 
any outward rite can save him. He knows that it 
must be something in his own soul. And now, what 
shall it be ? What does he set himself to do, or to 
seek ? What is the point about which his anxious de- 



328 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



sires are hovering? "Ok! that that thing could be 
wrought in me. on which ail depends ! I know not 
what it is ; but I want it ; I pray for it." And this 
something that is to be done in him, is something that 
can be done in a moment ! Can anything be plainer 
then, than this which I am saying : that he is not 
looking to the increase and strengthening and perfec- 
tion of truth, kindness, disinterestedness, humility, gra- 
titude to God, to save him ; not for the increase and 
strengthening of anything that is already in him ; but 
for the lodgment in him, of something neic that will 
save him. He does not set himself, in seeking religion, 
about the cultivation of known affections, but about 
the attainment of unknown affections. 

Look again for further proof, at the language of the 
popular religion, whether heard from the pulpit, or 
coining from the press. What is more common than 
to hear morality decried, and the most lovely virtue 
disparaged, in comparison with something called grace 
in the heart ? Morality is allowed to be a very good 
thing for this world, but no preparation for the next : 
or it is insisted on as a consequence of grace, but is 
considered as no part of grace itself ; or if it is admit- 
ted that by an infusion of grace, morality may become 
a holy thing, still, by this supposition, the grace main- 
tains its position as the distinct, peculiar and primal 
essence of virtue. Observe, that I do not say that any 
body preaches against kindness, honesty and truth-tel- 
ling, absolutely. Nay, they are insisted on. But iu 
what character ? Why, as evidences of that other 
thing, called religion or grace. They are not that 
thing, nor any part of it ; but only evidences of it. 
And observe too, that if it were only said, that much 
that is called morality and kindness, is not real moral- 
ity or kindness ; that the ordinary standard of virtue 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION "WITH GOODNESS. 329 



is too low and needs to be raised ; to that discrimina- 
tion, 1 should have nothing to object. But the point 
maintained is, that nothing that is called simple 
kindness or morality, ever comes, or ever can, by any 
increase come, up to the character of saving virtue. 

There is one further and decisive consideration which 
I am reluctant to mention, but which I will suggest, 
because it is, first of all, necessary that I should clear- 
ly make out the case upon which my discourse pro- 
ceeds. The Church has ever been accustomed to hold 
that the virtues of heretics are nothing worth. Now 
suppose a case. Here is a body of men, called here- 
tics ; Protestants they were once — Church of England 
men, Puritans, Presbyterians. No age has wanted the 
instance. Here is a body of men, I say, called here- 
tics. To all human view, they are as amiable, affec- 
tionate and true hearted ; as honest, diligent and tem- 
perate, as any other people. They profess to reverence 
religion too ; they build churches, meet together for 
worship ; and their worship seems as hearty and ear- 
nest as any other. By any standard of judging save 
that of theology, they appear to be as good and devout 
men as any other. Now what does the popular the- 
ology, what does the pulpit say, of them ? Why this, 
briefly and summarily, — that they have no religion. 
They may be very good men, very amiable, kind, 
honest and true, and after their manner, devout ; but 
they have no religion. Is not the case clear ? Must 
not religion be a secret in the bosom of these confident 
judges ? They must know what it is : but others do 
not know and cannot find out. We must sit down in 
silence and despair ; for we can know nothing about 
it. Or if we say anything, there is nothing for us but 
to say with Job, " no doubt, ye are the men, and wis- 
dom shall die with you !" But this, at least, is clear : 
28* 



330 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



whatever this religion is, of which they speak ; wheth- 
er it consist in a certain belief or in some secretly im- 
parted grace, it must be something different from all 
that men generally understand, by goodness and de- 
votion. 

In short, the prevailing idea of religion is, unques- 
tionably, that it is some heavenly visitant to the soul : 
some divine guest that takes up its abode there ; some 
essence or effluence, not merely proceeding from God 
as its cause, which it does, but partaking of unknown 
attributes ; something that comes into the soul from 
without, and is sustained there by a foreign influence : 
something that is, at a certain time, created in the 
heart, and is totally unlike anything that was there 
before : something that is ingrafted upon our nature, 
and does not, in any sense, grow out of it ; something, 
in fine, that is put into us, and does not, in any sense, 
spring out of us ; is not originally the result of any 
culture or care of ours, is not wrought out of any ma- 
terials found in us, not reducible to any ordinary laws 
of cause and effect : but is the result of a special and 
supernatural working of divine power, brought to bear 
upon us. This doctrine, as I have latterly stated it, is 
undoubtedly modified by some of the New Schools of 
Theology that are rising around us ; and this whole 
idea of religion is, doubtless, rejected by some orthodox 
persons ; as it was completely rejected in the old 
English theology of Paley and Bishop Butler ; but it 
is nevertheless very generally taught in this country, 
and it is the faith, or rather the fear and trouble, of the 
multitude. 

Nor do I know of any recent modification of the pre- 
vailing Theology, that materially affects the point now 
before us. When I say that, according to that theolo- 
gy, religion is not wrought out of any materials found 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 331 



ill us, it may be thought that I do injustice to the 
views of some of its adherents. They hold perhaps 
that the necessary powers are within us ; and simply 
maintain that they have never been rightly exercised, 
and that without a special impulse from above, they 
never will be. On this supposition, the moral facul- 
ties of our nature stand like machinery, waiting for 
the stream of influence that is to move them. In the 
unregenerate nature, they have never been moved, or 
have never been rightly moved ; and they never will 
be, by any power among them or inherent in them. 
That motion or that right motion when it comes, will 
be religion. But on this supposition, is not religion a 
thing, still and equally unknown ? Can the unregen- 
erate man foresee, can he conjecture, what that motion 
will be ? Can any body understand what it is ; saving 
and excepting the converted man himself ] 

I suppose that this conclusion is incontrovertible ; 
and I presume that almost every convert to the popu- 
lar forms of religion, would be found to say : " I can- 
not tell you what it is that I have got ; I cannot tell 
you what religion is ; but I know by experience what 
it is ; and that is enough for me." 

This view of religion, I propose to make the subject 
of some free discussion. It demands the most serious 
consideration ; and I do not remember that it has re- 
ceived at any hand, the attention that it deserves. 

I shall first state the opposite, and as I conceive, 
the true view of religion, and briefly show why it is 
true : and I shall then proceed to consider more at 
large, the consequences that must result and do re- 
sult, from the prevailing, and as I conceive, the false 
view. 

And here let me distinctly observe, that I am not 
about to consider these consequences as matters foreign 



332 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION". 



and indifferent to ourselves. They belong" to us. 
indeed, as they concern the general state of religion in 
the world. But they concern us yet more nearly, as 
they enter more or less into the state of our own 
minds. No age can escape the influence of the past. 
The moral history of the world, is a stream, that is 
not to be cut off at a single point. In us. doubtless, 
are to be found the relics of all past creeds, of all past 
errors. 

But before I proceed to these consequences. I am 
briefly to state and defend what I conceive to be the 
true view of religion, as a principle in the mind. 

For statement then I say. in the first place, that all 
men know what God requires of them, what affections, 
what virtues, what graces, what emotions of penitence 
and piety; in the second place, that all men have a 
capacity for these affections and some exercise of them, 
however slight and transient ; and in the third place, 
that what God requires, what constitutes the salvation 
of the soul, is the culture, strengthening, enlargement, 
predominance of these very affections ; that he who 
makes that conscience and rectitude and self-denial, and 
penitence and sacred love of God which he already 
perceives and feels, or has felt in himself, however im- 
perfectly ; he who makes these affections the fixed, 
abiding, and victorious habits of his soul, is accepted 
with God, and must be happy in time and in eternity. 

This is the statement : and for defence of this view 
of religion, I submit its own reasonableness : nay. and 
I contend for its absolute certainty as a matter of 
Scriptural interpretation. 

First, its reasonableness. For if men. if all men do 
not know what religion is, they do not know what is 
required of them. To say that God demands that to 
be done in us and by us, of which we have no concep- 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 333 

tion or no just conception, is to make a statement 
which carries with it its own refutation. To make a 
mystery of a commandment, is a solecism amounting 
to absolute self-contradiction. Again, we could not 
know what are the affections that are required of us, 
unless it were by some experience of them. It is phi- 
losophically impossible ; it is, in the nature of things, 
impossible that we should. No words, no symbols 
could teach us what moral or spiritual emotion is, un- 
less we had in ourselves some feeling of what it is ; 
any more than they could teach a blind man what it 
is to see, or a deaf man what it is to hear. Excellence, 
holiness, justice, disinterestedness, love, are words 
which never could have any meaning to us, if the 
originals, the germs of those qualities were not within 
us. Let any person ask himself what he understands 
by love, the love of man or of God, and how he obtained 
the idea of that affection ; and he will find that he 
understands it, because he feels it, or has, sometime or 
other, felt it. Once more ; I have said that these feel- 
ings of benevolence and piety, cultivated into the pre- 
dominant habit of the soul, are the very virtues and 
graces that are required of us. And is not this ob- 
viously true? We all know by something of expe- 
rience, what it is to love those around us ; to wish 
them well; to be kindly affectioned and mercifully 
disposed towards them. And we all have had some 
transient emotions at least of gratitude and love to the 
Infinite Father. Now if all these affections were to 
fill our hearts, and shine in our lives always, what 
would this be, but that character in which all true 
religion and happiness are bound up ? 

Thus reasonable is the ground which w T e are 
defending. But I have said also, that it is certain, 
from the principles that must govern us in the interpre- 



334 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION 



tation of Scripture. The Bible addresses itself to the 
world, and demands a certain character. In describ- 
ing that character it adopts terms in common use. It 
tells us that we must be lovers of God, and lovers of 
men ; that we must be gentle, forbearing and forgiv- 
ing ; true, pure, and faithful. Now if it does not 
mean by these words as to their radical sense, what we 
all mean by them ; if it uses them in an altogether 
extraordinary and unintelligible manner, then, in the 
first place, it teaches nothing ; and next, it leads us 
into fatal error. The conclusion is inevitable. What 
the Bible presupposes to be a right knowledge of reli- 
gion, is a right knowledge. 

I am not denying that we are to grow in this know- 
ledge, through experience ; and that, from our want of 
this enlightening experience, much is said to us in the 
Scriptures of our own blindness : much of the new 
light that will break in upon us, with the full expe- 
rience of the power of the Gospel. But to a world 
totally blind, wrapped in total darkness, and having 
no conception of what light is, the Bible would not 
have spoken of light. The word stands for an idea. 
If the idea, and the just idea did not exist, the word 
would not be used. 

There is then a light in the human soul, amidst all 
its darkness ; an inward light ; a divine light, which, if 
it were increased instead of being dimmed, would shine 
brighter and brighter, even to the perfect day. Let 
any man have taken the best feeling that ever was in 
him — some feeling, however transient, of kindness to 
his fellow, or some emotion of reverence and gratitude 
to his Creator ; let him have taken that feeling and 
all that class of feelings, and cultivated and carried it 
up to an abiding habit of mind, and he would have 
become a good and pious man. This change, from 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 335 



transient to habitual emotions of goodness and piety, 
is the very regeneration that is required of us. 
The being, so changed, would be " born again," would 
be " a new creature " old things with him would have 
passed away, and all things would have become new." 

Now, according to the common doctrine, instead of 
this slow, thorough, intelligible and practical change, 
we are to look for a new and unknown element to be 
introduced among our affections. A man feels that he 
must become a Christian, that he must obtain that 
character on which all happiness, here and hereafter, 
depends. And now what does he do ? Finding in 
himself an emotion of good -will, of affection for his 
neighbour, does he fasten upon that, and say, " this 
must I cherish and cultivate into a genuine philan- 
thropy and a disinterested love?" Feeling the duty 
of being honest, does he say, " this practical conscience 
must I erect into a law T ?" Sensible, in some gracious 
hour, of the goodness of God or the worth of a Saviour, 
does be say, " let me keep and bear upon my heart, 
the reverent and sacred impression ?" No, all this, 
the popular theology repudiates, and represents as a 
going about to establish our own righteousness. " No, 
it says, you must feel that you can do nothing your- 
self; you must cast yourself, a helpless, despairing 
sinner, upon the mercy of God; you must not look to 
the powers of a totally depraved nature to help you at 
all: you must cast yourself wholly upon Christ : you 
must look to the renewing power of the Holy Ghost, 
and to the creation in you of something totally dif- 
ferent from any thing that is in you now." 

The question between these two views of religion 
is certainly one of a very serious character ; one on 
which momentous consequences depend. And it is a 
question too, which concerns not one or another form 



336 



THE NATURE OF RELIGlurs . 



of sectarian faith alone, but the entire condition of 
Christianity in the world. The idea of religion on 
which I have dwelt so much in this discourse with a 
view to controvert it. has penetrated the whole mass 
of religious opinion. No body of Christians has 
entirely escaped it ; not even our own ; though our 
characteristic position, as I conceive, at the present 
moment, is one of protest against it. I say at the 
present moment. We have gone through with a specu- 
lative controversy. It may be renewed, no doubt : but 
there will be hardly anything new to be said upon it. 
We have gone through, then, with the argument about 
the Trinity, the Atonement, Election, and such specu- 
lative matters ; and we have come now to the greater 
question, what is religion itself? And what we say, 
is, that, religion is a principle, deep-imbedded in the 
conscience and consciousness of all mankind ; and that 
from these germs of it. which are to be found in 
human nature, it is to be cultivated and carried up to 
perfection. What is maintained on the contrary is, 
that religion, the true and saving religion, is a prin- 
ciple of which human nature is completely ignorant ; 
that to make a man a Christian, is to implant in him 
a principle, entirely new, and before unknown. Whether 
it be called a principle, or a new mode of spiritual 
action, for some may prefer the latter description, it is 
the same thing in this respect. The man unregene- 
rate. according to this teaching, can no more tell what 
he is to feel when made regenerate, than a man can 
anticipate what a shock of electricity will be, or what 
will be the effect upon his system of a new poison ; or 
what would be the experience of a sixth sense. 

The establishment of this point is so material in 
this whole discussion, that I shall occupy the few 
moments that remain to me, with the attempt to 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 337 

relieve the views I have offered, from all misappre- 
hension. 

Let it then be distinctly observed, in the first place, 
that the question is not at all about the nature or ne- 
cessity or degree of divine influence. Not, what power 
from above, is exerted to produce religion in the soul, 
but what the religion is, however produced ; not what 
divine aid is given to human endeavour, but what is 
the nature and result of that endeavour ; not what 
grace from God, but what grace in man, is ; this is the 
question. Of course, we believe in general, that all 
true religion, in common with every thing else good, 
proceeds from God. And for myself, I firmly believe, 
that it pleases the Almighty to give special assistance 
to the humble and prayerful efforts of his weak and 
tempted creatures ; and this, not only when those ef- 
forts are resolutely commenced, but in every successive 
step of the religious course ; not merely nor peculiarly 
in the hour of conversion, but equally in the whole 
process of the soul's sanctification. I know of no 
Scripture warrant for supposing that this divine influ- 
ence is limited to any particular season, or is concen- 
trated upon any particular exigency of the soul's 
experience. 

In the next place, I do not say that the notion of 
religion as a mystery or an enigma, embraces or usurps 
the whole of the popular idea of religion. When I 
shall come to speak of the injurious consequences of 
this idea, I shall maintain that an enigma cannot be 
the object of any moral admiration, or love, or culture, 
or sensibility ; and I may then be asked if I mean to 
say that there is no religious goodness or earnestness 
amoog those who embrace this idea. And to this, I 
answer beforehand and decidedly, " no, I do not mean 
to say this." If the idea were not modified nor quali- 
29 



338 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



fied in any way, if no other ideas mixed themselves 
up with that of a mystic religion, this would be the 
result. It is seldom that error practically stands alone. 
Still it is proper to single it out, and to consider it by 
itself. And I do maintain too, that this error predom- 
inates sufficiently to exert the most disastrous influence 
upon the religion of the whole Christian world. 

The whole of Christianity as it is commonly receiv- 
ed, is, in my view, greatly perverted, corrupted and 
enfeebled by this error. Christianity is not regarded 
as a clearer and more impressive exhibition of the 
long established, well known, eternal laws of man's 
spiritual welfare, but as the bringing in of an entirely 
new scheme of salvation. The common interpretation of 
it, instead of recognising the liberal Apostolic doctrine, 
that the " way of salvation is known to all men, that 
those not having the written law are a law to them- 
selves, and that in every nation he that worships God 
and works righteousness," is accepted of him, holds 
in utter derogation and sovereign scorn, all heathen 
light and virtue. The prevailing idea is, that the Gos- 
pel is a certain device or contrivance of divine wisdom, 
to save men ; not helping them in the way which they 
already perceive in their own consciousness, but super- 
seding all such ways and laying them aside entirely ; 
not opening and unfolding new lights and encourage- 
ments to that way, by revelations of God's paternal 
mercy and pledges of his forgiving love, but revealing 
a way altogether new. 

Thus the Gospel itself is made a kind of mystic 
secret. I cannot allow a few of the more intelligent 
expounders of it to reply, as if that were sufficient, 
that they do not regard it in this light. I ask them to 
consider what is the general impression conveyed by 
most preachers of Christianity. They may be offend- 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 339 

ed when we say that vital religion is commonly repre- 
sented as a mystery, an enigma, to the mass of their 
hearers. But let us not dispute about words. They 
do represent it as something created in their heart, 
which was not there before ; of which no element 
was there before ; of which no man's previous expe- 
rience ever gives him any information, any conception. 
If this is not a mystery to mankind, it would be dif- 
ficult to tell what there is that deserves the name. 
Suppose the same thing to be applied to men's general 
knowledge. Men know many things ; but suppose it 
were asserted that in all their knowing there is not 
one particle of true knowledge, and that only here 
and there one, who has been specially and divinely 
enlightened, possesses any such knowledge. Would 
not such knowledge then, be a secret shared by a few, 
and kept from the rest of the world ? Would it not 
be a profound mystery to the mass of mankind ? 
Yes ; and a mystery all the darker for the seeming 
light that surrounded it ! 

How much is there that passes in the bosom of so- 
ciety, unquestioned and almost unknown ! It is this 
which prevents us from seeing the momentous fact and 
the character of the fact, which I have now been at- 
tempting to strip bare and to lay before you. It would 
seem that we least know that which is nearest to us, 
which is most familiar and most certain, which is mix- 
ed up most intimately with all present thought and 
usage, and with the life that we daily live. A thing 
must become history, it would seem, before we can 
fairly read it. This is commonly allowed to be true 
of political affairs ; but it is just as true of all human 
experience. Thus, if there had been a sect, among 
the old philosophers, which pretended to hold the ex- 
clusive possession of all science ; if certain persons 



340 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



had stood up in the ancient time, and said, " that which 
other men call science, is all an illusion ; we alone 
truly know any thing ; all other men are but fools and 
idiots in this matter ; they suppose themselves to 
know, but they know nothing ; they use words, and 
make distinctions, and write books, as if they knew, 
but they know nothing ; they do not even know, what 
knowing is such a pretension we should not hesitate 
to characterize as a strange mixture of mysticism and 
arrogance. But the same assumption in regard to 
religion, is now put forth among ourselves ; it is an- 
nounced every week from the pulpit ; it is constantly 
written in books ; it enters into every argument about 
total depravity and regeneration and divine grace ; and 
men seem totally insensible to its enormity ; it is re- 
garded as a mark of peculiar wisdom and sanctity ; 
the men who take this ground, are the accredited 
Christian teachers of multitudes ; they speak as if the 
secret of the matter were in them, and as if they were 
perfectly entitled, in virtue of a certain divine illumi- 
nation which they have received, to pronounce all 
other religious claims to be groundless and false ; to 
say of all other men but the body of the elect, " they 
think they know what religion is ; they talk about it ; 
they make disquisitions and distinctions as if they 
knew, but they know nothing about it ; they do not 
even know what true religious knowing is." And all 
the people say, amen. There is no rebuke ; there is 
no questioning ; the light of coming ages has not yet 
shone upon this pretension ; and the people say, it is 
all very right, very true. 

I pray you, in fine, not to regard what I have now 
been saying as a sectarian remonstrance. Nay, and 
if it were so, it would not be likely to be half strong 
enough. There is a heavy indifference on this subject 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 341 



of religion that weighs down remonstrance, and will 
not let it rise as it ought. If certain ship-masters or 
merchants should say that they only understood navi- 
gation ; if certain mechanicians or manufacturers 
should assert that they only understood their art or 
their business ; if certain lawyers or physicians should 
lay exclusive claim to the knowledge of law or medi- 
cine, there would be an outburst of indignation and 
scorn on every hand. "What presumption! what 
folly ! these people are deranged !" — would be the excla- 
mation. But men may make this claim in religion ; 
a few persons comparatively in Christendom, may say, 
" we only have religion ; we alone truly know what 
religion is and the indifference of society replies, 
" no matter ; let them claim it : let them have it as if 
the thing were not worth disputing about. And if some 
one arouses himself to examine and to resist this 
claim, indifference still says, "this is but a paltry, 
sectarian dispute." 

No, sirs, I answer, this is not a sectarian dispute. 
It is not a sectarian remonstrance that is demanded 
here ; but the remonstrance of all human experience. 
Religion is the science of man's intrinsic and immortal 
welfare. What is a true knowledge, what is a true 
experience here, is a question of nothing less than 
infinite moment. All that a man is to enjoy or suffer 
for ever, depends upon the right, practical solution of 
this very question. Every where else, in business, in 
science, in his profession, may a man mistake with 
comparative impunity. But if he mistakes here, if he 
does not know, and know by experience, what it is to 
be good and pure, what it is to love God and to be con- 
formed to his image, he is, in spite of all that men or 
angels can do for him, a ruined creature. 

Settle it then with yourselves, my Brethren, what 
29* 



342 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



true religion, true goodness, is. I will attempt, in 
some further discourses, to lead you to the inferences 
that follow from this discussion. But it is so fruitful 
in obvious inferences, that I am willing for the present 
to leave it with you, for your reflections. But this I 
say now. Settle it with yourselves what true religion 
is. If it is a mystery, then leave no means untried to 
become acquainted with that mystery. If it is but 
the cultivation, the increase in you, of what you al- 
ready know and feel to be right, then address your- 
selves to that work of self-culture, as men who know 
that more than fortunes and honours depend upon it 5 
who know that the soul, that heaven, that eternity, 
depend upon it. 



XXII. 



ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS, 
AND WITH A GOOD LIFE. 

IP A MAN SAY, I LOVE GOD, AND HATETH HIS BROTHER, HE IS A LIAR ; FOR 
HE THAT LOVETH NOT HIS BROTHER WHOM HE HATH SEEN, HOW CAN HE 
LOVE GOD WHOM HE HATH NOT SEEN ? — 1 John iv. 20. 

I have presented, in my last discourse, two views 
of religion, or of the supreme human excellence ; and 
I have offered some brief, but as I conceive, decisive 
considerations to show which is the right view. The 
one regards religion or the saving virtue, as a new cre- 
ation in the soul ; the other as the culture of what is 
already in the soul. The one contemplates conversion 
as the introduction of an entirely new element, or of 
an entirely new mode of action, into our nature ; the 
other, as a strengthening, elevating and confirming of 
the conscience, the reverence and the love that are al- 
ready a part of our nature. A simple comparison 
drawn from vegetable nature will show the difference. 
Here is a garden of plants. The rational gardener 
looks upon them all as having in them, the elements 
of growth and perfection. His business is to cultivate 
them. To make the comparison more exact — he sees 
that these plants have lost their proper beauty and 
shapeliness, that they are distorted and dwarfed and 
choked with weeds. But still the germs of improve- 
ment are in them, and his business is to cultivate them. 
But now what does the theological gardener say? 



344 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



" No, in not one of these plants, is to be found the germ 
of the right production. To obtain this, it is necessary 
to graft upon each one, a new principle of life." 

Now I have said, that, upon the theory in question, 
this new creation, this new element, this graft upon 
the stock of humanity, is, and must be to the mass of 
mankind, a mystery, an enigma, a profound secret. 
And is not this obviously true ? Man, in a state of 
nature, it is constantly taught, has not one particle of 
the true saving excellence. How then should he know 
what it is ? " Very true," says the popular theorist ; 
" I accept, the conclusion ; is it not written, the natural 
man receiveth not the things of God, neither can he 
know them, because they are spiritually discerned?" 
That is to say, the popular theorist understands by the 
natural man, in this much quoted and much misun- 
derstood passage, human nature. If he construed it 
to mean, the sensual man, I conceive that he would 
arrive at a just exposition. But that is not the point in 
question now. He does construe it to mean human 
nature : this is constantly done. Human nature being 
nothing but one mass of unmingled depravity, having 
never had one right motion or one right feeling, can, 
of course, have no knowledge of any such motion or 
feeling. 

And to show that this is not a matter of doctrine 
only, but of experience too, let me spread before you a 
single supposition of what often, doubtless, takes place 
in fact. A man of generally fair and unexceptionable 
life, is lying upon his bed of death, and is visited and 
questioned, with a view to his spiritual condition. 
Suppose now he were to say, " I have had for some 
time past, though I never confessed it before, a certain, 
unusual, indescribable feeling in my heart on the sub- 
ject of religion. It came upon me, for I remember it 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 345 

well, in such a month of such a year ; it was a new 
feeling ; I had never felt any thing like it before. Ever 
since, I have had a hope that I then experienced reli- 
gion. Not that I trust myself, or any thing in myself; 
I cast all my burthen upon Christ ; nothing but Christ 
— nothing but Christ, is the language upon my lips with 
which I would part from this world and would net 
this declaration, I ask, though conveying not one intelli- 
gible or definite idea to the most of those around him, be 
held to be a very satisfactory account of his preparation 
for futurity? But now suppose that he should express 
himself in a different manner, and should utter the 
thoughts of his heart thus : " I know that I am far 
from perfect, that I have, in many things, been very 
unfaithful ; I see much to repent of. for which I hope 
and implore God's forgiveness. But I do trust, that for 
a number of years, I have been growing in goodness ; 
that I have had a stronger and stronger control over 
my passions. Alas ! I remember sad and mournful 
years, in which they had dominion over me ; but I do 
trust that I did at length gain the victory ; and that 
latterly, I have become, every year, more and more 
pure, kind, gentle, patient, disinterested, spiritual and 
devout. I feel that God's presence, in which I am 
ever happiest, has been more abidingly with me : and 
in short, I hope that the foundations of true happiness 
have been laid deep in my soul ; and that through 
God's mercy, of which I acknowledge the most ador- 
able manifestation and the most blessed pledge in the 
Gospel, I shall be happy forever." And now I ask you, 
do you not think that this account, with many persons, 
would have lost just as much in satisfactoriness as it 
has gained in clearness ? Would not some of the wise, 
the guides in Israel, go away, shaking their heads, and 
saying, they feared it would never do ? " Too much 



346 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



talk about his own virtues !" they would say ; " too 
little about Christ !" with an air itself mysterious in 
that solemn reference. And doubtless if this man had 
talked more mystically about Christ and grace and the 
Holy Spirit, it would have been far more satisfactory. 
And yet he has stated, and clearly stated, the essential 
grounds of all human welfare and hope. 

How often in life, to take another instance, does a 
highly moral and excellent man say, " I hope I am not 
a bad man ; I mean to do right ; I trust I am not de- 
void of all kind and generous affections towards my 
fellow-men, or of all grateful feelings towards my 
Maker; but then I do not profess to have religion. I 
do not pretend that I am a Christian in any degree." 
Let not my construction of this case, be mistaken. 
Doubtless in many such persons there are great de- 
fects ; nay, and defects proceeding partly from the 
very error which I am combatting. For if I were to 
say to such persons, " yes, you have some good and 
pious affections in you, which God approves, and your 
only business is, to give the supremacy to these very 
affections which are already in you f I should be 
thought to have lulled his conscience, fostered his pride, 
and ruined his soul. I should be regarded as a world- 
ly moralizer, a preacher of smooth things, a follower 
of the long-doomed heresy of Pelagius. " No," it 
would be said, " there is no saving virtue in that man ; 
there is nothing in him that can be strengthened, or 
refined or elevated or confirmed into holiness ; there is 
no spark to be fanned into a flame, no germ to be 
reared into saving life and beauty ; all these things are 
to be flung aside to make way for the reception of 
something altogether new ; as new as light to the blind 
or as life to the dead. That something, when it comes, 
will be what he never knew before, never felt before, 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 347 



never before truly saw or conceived of; and it is, 
undoubtedly, though that is an unusual way of de- 
scribing it — it is, to depraved human nature, a mys- 
tery." 

This unquestionable assumption of the popular re- 
ligion, I shall now proceed freely to discuss in several 
points of view ; in its bearing on the estimate and 
treatment of religion, on its culture, and on its essen- 
tial vitality and power. 

In the present discourse I shall consider its bearing 
on the estimate, and on the treatment of religion. 

First, the general estimate of the nature, reason- 
ableness and beauty of religion ; what can it be, if re- 
ligion is a mystery, an enigma, a thing unknown ? We 
may feel curiosity about a mystery ; and I have seen 
more than one person, seeking religion from this im- 
pulse : because they would know what it can be. 
This is uncommon, doubtless ; but taken in any view, 
can men be in love with a mystery ? Can they feel 
any moral admiration for an enigma ? Can their af- 
fections be strongly drawn to what is completely un- 
known ? Can they feel even the rectitude of that, of 
which they have no appreciation, no idea ? Certainly 
not ; and in accordance with this view is the old Cal- 
vinistic doctrine concerning the means of grace : which 
utterly denied the force of moral suasion, and held that 
there is no natural tendency in preaching to change the 
heart ; that the connection between preaching and re- 
generation was as purely arbitrary as that between the 
voice of Ezekiel over the valley of dry bones and their 
resurrection to life. 

But suppose this view T of preaching be modified, and 
that a man designs to impress his hearers with the 
reasonableness and beauty of religion, and so to draw 
their hearts to it. What, let us ask him, can you do, 



348 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



upon the principle that religion is utterly foreign to 
"human nature, an absolute secret to humanity ? You 
have denied and rejected the only means of rational 
impression — some knowledge and experience in the 
hearers, of that about which you are speaking to them. 
You have disannulled the very laws and grounds of 
penitence ; for how can men feel to blame for not pos- 
sessing the knowledge of a secret ? In fine, you may 
be a magician to men, upon this principle ; but I do 
not perceive how you can be a rational preacher. You 
may say, " this, of which I speak to you, is something 
wonderful ; try it ; you have no idea what it w T ill be to 
you ; you will find — " you cannot say, you see — but, 
" you will find that it is something delightful and 
beautiful beyond all things." And have w 7 e never wit- 
nessed a preaching which seemed to work upon the 
hearers, as it were, by a kind of art magic : solemn and 
affecting tones, a preternatural air, a talking as of 
some secret in heaven ready to come right down into 
the hearts of the hearers, if they will : an awful expos- 
tulation with them for their refusal ; a mysterious in- 
fluence drawn around the place ; dark depths of wo 
here ; a bright haze of splendour there ; heaven above, 
hell beneath ; and the sinner suspended between them 
by a parting cord ! And how, oh ! how, was he now 
to escape ? Mark the answer ; for if there ever was a 
mystery, here is one. By some stupendous change 
then and there to take place ; not by rationally culti- 
vating any good affections ; not by solemnly resolving 
to do so ; not at all by that kind of change ; but by a 
change instant, immense, mysterious, incomprehensi- 
ble ; a change that would wrap up in that moment the 
destinies of eternity, that should gather up all the wel- 
fare or wo of the infinite ages of being, into the mys- 
terious bosom of that awful moment ! 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 349 

Can such teaching as this, go to the silent depths of 
real and rational conviction ? Did Jesus Christ teach 
in this manner ? Think how natural, how moral, 
how simple, his teachings were. Think how he taught 
men their duty in every form, which the instant occa- 
sion suggested. Think of his deep sobriety, of his 
solemn appeals to conscience rather than to imagina- 
tion, to what was in man rather than what was out 
of him ; and then answer me. Did the great Bible 
preachers, teach so ? Behold the beauty of holiness, 
they say, behold the glory of the Lord : " know and 
see that it is an evil thing and bitter to depart " from 
them. " Come, ye children, and I will teach you the 
fear of the Lord. Yv'hat man is he that desireth life 
and loveth many days that he may see good ? Keep 
thy tongue from evil, and thy lips from speaking guile. 
Depart from evil and do good : seek peace and pursue 
it. The eyes of the Lord are upon such righteous 
ones, and his ears are open to their cry.'' All simple ; 
all intelligible : all plain and level to the humblest 
apprehension ; no talking of a mysterious secret here ; 
no mysterious talking any way ! 

It is very difficult to speak the exact and undisputed 
truth upon any point, amidst the endless shapings and 
shadowings of language and opinion. I myself, who 
protest against making a secret of religion, may be 
found speaking, of most men as very ignorant of reli- 
gion ; of the depths of the Gospel as yet to be sounded 
by them ; of the preciousness of the great resource as 
yet to be felt, yet to be found out by them. But I am 
well understood, by those who are accustomed to hear 
me, not to mean any thing, which is radically a secret 
of humanity, but simply the increase and consumma- 
tion in the soul, of that which it already knows and 
experiences. The change from transient and un- 
30 



350 



THE NATURE OF RELIGIOX. 



stable, to habitual and abiding emotions of goodness 
and piety, is the most immense, the most important, 
the most glorious on earth ; and it is one, of which 
those who are ignorant of it, cannot clearly foresee all 
the blessed fruits. 

Again, it is very difficult to describe what is deemed 
a great error, without seeming to do it harshly. I 
would gladly avoid this imputation. God forbid that 
I should speak lightly of the preaching of good and 
earnest men. I must speak plainly of it, I must re- 
monstrate against what I deem to be its errors. But 
I do not forget that with all error there is a mixture of 
truth. No doubt, there are, in all pulpits, many ap- 
peals, however inconsistent with the prevailing the- 
ology, to what men naturally know and feel of the 
rectitude and beauty of religion. But from this mass 
of teaching, I single out one element which. I say. is 
not accordant with truth ; which, I must say. is not 
only false, but fatal to all just appreciation of religion. 

And does not the actual state of things show this to 
be the fact? With what eyes are men, in fact, look- 
ing upon a religion which holds itself to be a mystic 
secret in the bosom of a few ? Do you not know that 
the entire literature and philosophy of the age, are in 
a state of revolt against it? Our literature has its 
ideals of character, its images of virtue and worth ; 
it portrays the moral beauty that it admires ; but is 
there one trace of this mystic religion in its delinea- 
tions? Our philosophy, our moral philosophy espe- 
cially, whose very business it is to decide what is right, 
calmly treads this religion under foot, does not consider 
its claims at all. And the cultivators of literature, of 
science and of art, with a multitude of thoughtful and 
intelligent men besides them — is it not a well-ascer- 
tained fact that they are remarkably indifferent to this 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 351 



kind of religion ? Here and there one has fallen in 
with it ; but the instance is rare. But if religion were 
presented to them as a broad and rational principle, 
we might expect the reverse to be the fact. Thought- 
ful men. cultivators of literature and art, are the very 
men whose minds are most conversant with 
images of moral beauty. Show them that all true 
moral beauty, is a part of religion ; tell them that a 
Christian, in the true sense, is a man of principle, of 
truth and integrity, of kindness and modesty, of 
reverence and devotion to the Supreme Glory; and 
they must feel that all this is interesting. But if reli- 
gion is some mysterious property ingrafted into the 
soul, differing altogether from all that men are wont to 
call rectitude and beauty, must not all intellect and 
taste and all moral enthusiasm and all social generos- 
ity and love, shrink from it ? In truth, I wonder that 
they are so patient as they are ; and nothing but indif- 
ference about the whole matter, can account for this 
patience. When the preacher rises in his pulpit and 
tells the congregation, that, excepting that grace which 
is found in a few, all their integrity and virtue, all their 
social love and gentleness, all their alms and prayers, 
have not in the sight of God, one particle of true 
goodness or worth ; nothing, I say, but profound apathy 
and unbelief can account for their listening to the ser- 
mon with any patience, with an instant's toleration 
of the crushing burthen of that doctrine. Or suppose 
this doctrine embodied into a character, and then how 
does it appear? Suppose one person in a family, pos- 
sessing this mystic grace : in no other respect, that 
any body can see, better than the rest ; no more ami- 
able nor gentle nor disinterested, no more just nor for- 
bearing nor loving : and suppose this person to take 
the position of being the only one in that family that 



352 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



is approved of God. to hold all the rest as reprobate, 
and doomed to destruction : is it possible, I ask, to feel 
for that person in that character, any respect, or admi- 
ration, or love ? Nay, I have known persons of the 
greatest defects of character and even of gross vices, 
to take this ground of superiority, in virtue of a certain 
inward grace, which they conceive has been applied to 
them. And I say not this for the sake of opprobrium ; 
but because this ground is, in fact, a legitimate conse- 
quence of the doctrine that saving grace in the heart, 
is an entirely distinct and different thing from what 
men ordinarily call virtue and goodness. 

But further ; what is the state of feeling towards 
religion among those who accept this doctrine ? In 
those strong holds of theology or of Church institution, 
where this doctrine is entrenched, where it is preserved 
as a treasure sacred from all profane invasion, or held 
as a bulwark against what are called the inroads of 
insidious error ; in these places, I say, what is the feel- 
ing ? If religion is not any known or felt sentiment 
or affection of human nature to be cultivated, but is a 
spell that comes upon the heart of one and another, 
and nobody can tell how or when it will come, I can 
conceive that there may be much fear and anxiety 
about it ; but how there should be much true freedom 
or genuine and generous love, I cannot conceive. I 
do not profess to have any very intimate acquaintance 
with the mind of such a congregation ; but if religion 
does not press as an incubus upon the minds of many 
there ; if it is not a bugbear to the young, and a mys- 
tery to the thoughtful, and a dull, dead weight upon 
the hearts of the uninitiated : if, in its votaries, it is 
not ever swaying between the extremes of death-like 
coldness and visionary rapture ; if it is not a little 
pent-up hope of salvation, rather than a generous and 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 353 

quickening principle of culture ; if the fire in the secret 
shrine, does not wither the gentle and lofty virtues ; I 
must confess that I understand nothing of the ten- 
dencies of human nature. There may be much reli- 
giousness in such a state of things ; but much of this 
has existed in many a state, Heathen, Mahometan, 
Catholic and Protestant too, without much of true reli- 
gion. I do not say, that the churches consist generally 
of bad people ; many influences unite to form the 
character ; but I say that in so far as any churches 
hold their religion, to be some special grace implanted 
in them, and different from all that other men feel of 
goodness and piety, so far their assumption tends di- 
rectly to make them neglect the cultivation of all true 
worth and nobleness of character. And I am not 
shaken in this position by the admission which I am 
willing to make, that there are probably more good 
men, in proportion, in the churches than out of them ; 
for profession itself, the eye of the world upon them, 
and the use of certain ordinances, are powerful influ- 
ences. They are powerful, and yet they are not the 
loftiest influences. They restrain, more than they 
impel. And the very morality of an exclusive religion, 
is apt to wear features hard, stern, ungenial and 
unlovely. 

I have said in the opening of my last discourse, that 
the great mission of the true teacher in this age is to 
establish the identity of religion and goodness. And 
the reason is, that by no other means can religion be 
really esteemed and loved. Feared it may be; desired 
it may be ; but by no other means, I repeat, can it be 
truly and heartily esteemed and loved. 

Now consider that religion stands before the world, 
with precisely this claim, the claim to be, above all 
other things, reverenced and loved. Nay, it demands 
30* 



354 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



this love on paia of perdition for failure. Does the 
world respond to this claim ? Does public sentiment 
any where yield to it ? There are things that unite 
the moral suffrages of mankind — honesty, integrity, 
disinterestedness, pity for the sorrowful, true love, true 
sanctity, self-sacrifice, martyrdom, and among them 
and above them all, the character of Jesus Christ. 
Among these, does Calvinistic piety hold any place ? 
This is a fair and unexceptionable question in the 
sense in which I mean it. I am not speaking at all, 
of persons, I am speaking of an idea. Is the Calvin- 
istic idea of piety, among the beautiful and venerable 
ideals and objects of the world's conscience, of the 
world's moral feeling ? Surely not. But it will not do 
to say that this is because the world is so bad. For 
the character of our Saviour is among those objects ! 
Bad as the world is, yet all sects and classes and com- 
munities, all Infidels and Mahometans and Heathen, 
have agreed, without one single solitary whisper of 
contradiction, that this character is a perfect example 
of true, divine excellence ! Does the Calvinistic idea 
of religion draw to it, any such testimony? Then 
what clearer evidence can there be, that it is wrong ? 

And if it be wrong, if it is an error ; what terrible 
and awful mischiefs must follow in its train ! Mankind 
required, as the supreme duty, to love that which all 
their natural sentiments oblige them to dislike, and 
none of their natural powers, in fact, enable them to 
understand ! What peril must there be of their salva- 
tion in such a case ! What a calamitous state of 
things must it be for their highest hopes ! What con- 
fusion, what embroilment and distraction to all their 
moral convictions ! Nothing else can account for that 
blind wandering of many souls after the true good, 
which we see; for that wild fanaticism, which has 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 355 

taken the place of sober and intelligent seeking ; for 
that distracted running up a,nd down, of men who 
know not what they are to get, nor how to get it, nor 
what, in any way, to do ; and yet more, for that pro- 
found and dreadful apathy of many, who have con- 
cluded that they can do nothing, who have given up 
all thoughts of life as the voyage of the soul, and have 
resigned themselves to wait for some chance wave 
of excitement to bear them to the wished-for haven. 

Believe me, my friends, this is no abstract matter. 
It touches the vital ideas of human welfare. It con- 
cerns what is most practical, most momentous. In all 
congregations, in all townships and villages through 
the land, an image is held up of religion, an idea of 
what is the supreme excellence. It is regarded with 
doubt and fear and misgiving ; not with love, or 
enthusiasm, or admiration. It is not fair loveliness or 
beauty ; but a dark enigma. It is not the supreme 
excellence, but the supreme necessity. It is not intel- 
ligently sought, but blindly wished for. Alas ! it is 
hard enough to get men to pursue the true excellence 
when they are plainly told what it is. But here is a 
dread barrier on the very threshold, and they cannot 
proceed a single step. They can do nothing till they 
are converted ; they know not what it is to be convert- 
ed ; and they wait for the initiative to come from 
heaven; not knowing, alas! that to be converted is, with 
heaven's help, to begin ; to take the first determined 
step and the second, and thus to go onward ; to begin 
upon the ground of what they actually know, and 
thus to go on to perfection. Religion, the beauty of 
the world ; that which mingles as their pervading 
spirit with the glory of the heavens and the loveliness 
of nature ; that which breathes in the affections of 
parents and children and in all the good affections of 



356 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



society ; that which ascends in humble penitence and 
prayer to the throne of God : this is no mystic secret. 
It is to be good and kind, penitent and pure, temperate 
and self-denying, patient and prayerful ; modest and 
generous and loving, as thou knowest how to be : lov- 
ing, in reverent thoughts of the good God, and in kind 
thoughts of all his children. It is plain, not easy, not 
in that sense natural ; but natural in its accordance 
with all the loftiest sentiments of thy nature, easy in 
this, that nothing ever sat with such perfect peace and 
calm upon thy soul as that will. It is so plain, that 
he who runs, may read. It is the way in which fools 
need not err. " For what doth the Lord require of 
thee," saith the prophet, indignant at the complaint of 
ignorance, " what doth the Lord require of thee, but 
to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly 
with thy God ?" 

Let me now proceed in the next place, from the 
estimate to the treatment of religion. The topics in- 
deed are closely connected ; for the treatment of the 
subject will, of course, depend on the estimate formed 
of its character and merits. This consideration, it is 
evident, might cany us through the whole subject; 
but I shall not, at present, touch upon the ground of 
religious culture and religious earnestness, which I 
have reserved for separate discussion. In the remainder 
of this discourse, I shall confine myself to the treat- 
ment of religion; as a matter of investigation, and of 
institution, and as a matter to be approached in prac- 
tical seeking. The space that remains to me will 
oblige me to do this very briefly ; and indeed to touch 
upon one or two topics under these several heads, is 
all that I shall attempt. 

LTnder the head of investigation, the subject of reli- 
gious controversy presents itself. 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 357 



Every one must be aware that religious controversy 
is distinguished by certain remarkable traits, from all 
other controversy. There has generally been a sever- 
ity, a bigotry, an exclusion and an obstinacy in it, not 
found in any other disputes. What has invested, 
with these strange and unseemly attributes, a subject 
of such tender, sublime and eternal interest ? I con- 
ceive, that it is this : the idea that within the inmost 
bosom of religion, lies a secret, a something peculiar, 
distinct from all other qualities in the human character, 
and refusing to be judged of as other things are judged 
of, a secret wrapped about with the divine favour, and 
revealed only to a few. There is an unknown element 
in the case, and it is difficult to obtain a solution. 
The question is perplexed by it, as a question in 
chemistry would be, by the presence of some unde- 
tected substance. Or if the element is known to some, 
it is held to be unknown to others, and this assumption 
lays the amplest ground for bigotry and exclusion. If 
I know what religion is, and another man does not 
know, I am perfectly entitled, if I think proper, to re- 
ject his claim to it, to say that some defect of faith, or 
of ritual in him, forbids the possibility of his having 
it. Nothing is easier than, on this basis, to form an 
exclusive sect ; it is, in fact, the legitimate and the 
only legitimate basis of such a sect. I say the only 
legitimate basis ; because, if every thing in this matter 
be fairly submitted to inquiry and decision, the vitality 
of religion as well as its creed and ritual ; if all men 
can, by care and study, know what it is ; if all men 
must know what it is, by the very law written on their 
hearts ; then it is absurd for one party to lay claim to 
the sole knowledge and possession of it. Wrap it up 
in secrecy, and then, and then only, may you consist- 
ently wrap it up in exclusion. 



358 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



Only think of an exclusive party in science or art. 
Think of such a sect, saying to all others, " we only 
have the true love of science or art ; we only have 
the true spirit of science or art ;" and why would not 
their claim stand, for a moment ? Because all other 
men of learning and skill would say, " we are as com- 
petent to judge of this matter as you are. There is 
no secret in knowledge. There is no exclusive key to 
wisdom. There is no hidden way to art. Prove that 
there is, and then it may be that the mystery is in your 
possession. But until you establish this point, your 
claim is absurd and insufferable, and not worth exami- 
nation." 

Now the whole evil as well as the whole peculiarity 
of religious controversy, lies in this spirit of exclusion, 
in the assumption that opponents cannot be good men. 
Otherwise, controversy is a good thing. That is to 
say, honest and friendly discussion is good. The 
whole evil, I say, lies in the assumption of an exclusive 
knowledge of religion. Persecution proceeds upon no 
other ground. Men have been imprisoned, tortured, 
put to death, not merely because they erred, not simply 
because they differed from their brethren, but because 
that error, that difference, was supposed to involve the 
very salvation of the soul. Men have been punished, 
not as errorists simply, but as men irreligious and bad, 
and as making others so. I speak now of honest per- 
secution. Its object has been the salvation of souls. 
Its doctrine has been : " painful as torture is, it is 
better than perdition ; better fires on earth, than fires 
in hell." But the persecuted brethren say, " we are 
not irreligious and bad men. We wish the truest 
good to ourselves and others ; and though you oppose 
us, as you must, you ought not to hate, or torture or 
vilify us ; we no more deserve it than you do." And 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 359 



what is the reply ? " You know nothing about the mat- 
ter. You suppose yourselves to be good and true, and to 
have favour with God and a good hope of heaven : 
but we know better ; we know what true religion is, 
and we say that you are totally devoid of it." And 
this judgment, I repeat, can fairly proceed upon no- 
thing but the notion that religion is a secret in the pos- 
session of the persecutors. 

Let it be otherwise, as surely it ought to be, if 
any thing ought ; let religion, the great sentiment, the 
great interest of humanity, be common ground, open 
and common to all*, let men take their stand upon it, 
and say, as they say in other differences of opinion, "we 
all wish the same thing ; we would all be happy, we 
would get to heaven * what else can we wish ? n and 
do you not see how instantly religious disputes would 
take on a new character ; how gentle and charitable 
and patient and tolerant they would become ? But 
now, alas ! the toleration of science, of art, nay, and 
of politics too, goes beyond the toleration of religion ! 
Men do not say to their literary or political opposers, 
"ye are haters of science or art ; ye hate the common 
country but in religion, they say : " ye are haters of 
God, and of good men, and of all that is truly good.*' 
Yes, the occasion for this tremendous exclusion, is 
found in religion ; in that which was ordained to be 
the bond of love, the bosom of confidence, the garner 
of souls into heaven ; the theme of all grandeur and 
of all tenderness ; the comforter of affliction, the lov- 
ing nurse of all human virtues, the range of infinity, 
the reach to eternity, the example of the One meek 
and lowly ; the authority, at once, and the pity of the 
heavenly Father ! 

The next subject for the application of the point I 
am considering, is religious institutions. Under this 



360 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



head, I must content myself with briefly pointing* out 
a single example. The example is the ordinance of 
the Lord's Supper. The question I have to ask, is : 
why do so many sober, conscientious and truly reli- 
gious persons, refrain from a participation in this rite ? 
And the anwer with many, is doubtless to be found 
in the notion, that religion involves some secret, or the 
experience of some secret grace, something different 
from moral uprightness, and religious gratitude, with 
which they are not acquainted. I do not say that this 
account embraces every case of neglect, but I say that 
it embraces many. I will suppose a person, conscious 
of a sincere intent to be in all things, a true and good 
man, conscious too of religious affections, and desirous 
of cultivating them ; one, believing in Christ, believ- 
ing that his life and his death are the most powerful 
known ministration to human sanctity and blessed- 
ness ; one, also, truly disposed to impress the spirit of 
Christ upon his own heart, and persuaded that the 
meditations of the Communion season, would be a 
help and comfort to him ; and why now, I ask, shall 
he not avail himself of that appointed means? He 
is desirous of sacred culture. This is a means, and 
he wishes to embrace it. Why does he not ? I am 
sure that I may answer for him, that he would do so, 
if he felt that he were qualified. But this is the dif- 
ficulty ; he is afraid that there is some qualification, 
unknoivn to him ; and that he shall commit a sin of 
rashness and presumption if he comes to the sacred 
ordinance. 

My friends, it is all a mistake. You do know, in a 
greater or less measure, what Christian virtue, what 
Christian piety, is. You can know, whether you de- 
sire to cultivate this character. If you do, that very 
desire is the qualification. Means are for those who need 



IDENTITY OP RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 361 



them, not for those who need them not ; for the im- 
perfect, not for the perfect. The felt need of means, 
the sincere desire of means, is the qualification for 
them. If, being believers in Christianity, you also be- 
lieve that our Communion meditations would help you, 
you should as much come to them, as you come to the 
prayers of the Sanctuary. And you should as freely 
come. The Lord's Supper is a service no more sacred 
than the service of prayer. Nothing can be more 
solemn than solemn prayer. 

There is one more subject to be noticed under this 
head of treatment of religion, by far the most impor- 
tant of all, and that is religious seeking ; the seeking, 
in other words, to establish in one's self that character, 
on which God's approbation and all true good, all true 
happiness, depend, and will forever depend. Moment- 
ous pursuit ! that for which man was made, and life, 
with all its ordinances, was given ; and the Gospel, 
with all its means of grace and manifestations of 
mercy, was published to the world ; that in which 
every man should be more vitally and practically in- 
terested than in every other pursuit on earth. Every 
thing else may a man seek and gain ; the whole world 
may he gain, and after all lose this supreme interest. 
And yet to how many, alas ! will this very statement 
which I am making, appear technical, dry and unin- 
teresting ! — to how many more, irrelevant to them, 
foreign to their concerns, appropriate to other persons, 
but a matter with which they have nothing to do ! A 
kind of demure assent they may yield to the impor- 
tance of religion, but no vital faith ; nothing of that 
which carries them with such vigour and decision, to 
the pursuit of property, pleasure and fame. 

Now is there any difficulty in accounting for this de- 
plorable condition of the general mind ? Make reli- 
31 



362 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



gion a mystic secret, divest it of every attractive and 
holy charm, sever it from every thing that men already 
know and feel of goodness and love, tell them that they 
are totally depraved, totally destitute, totally ignorant ; 
and they may "wonder and perish;" but can they 
rationally seek any thing ? Men may be very deprav- 
ed, they maybe extremely deficient of the right affec- 
tions, as they doubtless are ; but if they saw the subject 
in the right light, they could not be indifferent. There 
could not be this heavy and benumbing cloud of apa- 
thy, spreading itself over the whole world. I have 
seen the most vicious men, intensely conscious, con- 
scious with mingled anger and despair, that the course 
of virtue is the only happy course. And do you preach 
to the most selfish and corrupt of men, in this wise, 
saying, " nothing but purity, gentleness, love, disinter- 
estedness, can make you happy, happy in yourself, in 
your family, or in society ; and nothing but the love 
of God can make you happy amidst the strifes and 
griefs of this life and the solemn approaches to death 
and they know that what you say is true ; they know 
that you are dealing with realities ; and they cannot 
be indifferent. They may be angry ; but anger is not 
indifference. But now, do you speak to them in a 
different tone and manner, and say, "you must get re- 
ligion ; you must experience the grace of God, in order 
to be happy," and immediately their interest will sub- 
side to that state of artificial acquiescence and real 
apathy, which now characterizes the mass of our 
Christian communities. 

Nor is this, save for its extent, the most affecting 
view of the common mistake. There are real and 
anxious seekers. And how are they seeking ? I have 
been pained to see such persons, often intelligent per- 
sons, blindly groping about as for the profoundest 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 363 

secret. They have no distinct idea of what it is they 
want, what they are to obtain, what they are to do. 
All that they seem to know is, that it is something to 
be wrought in their souls, and something on which 
their salvation depends. They go about from one 
meeting to another, from one master in Israel, or from 
one Revival preacher, or from one experienced person 
to another, and say, " Tell us what this thing is, that is 
to be done in us ; how did you feel when you were 
converted ? How was it ? How did the power of ^di- 
vine grace come upon you ? What was the change in 
that very moment when you passed from death to life ?" 
Well may the apostolic teaching speak to such, in this 
wise : K Say not who shall go up into heaven, that is to 
bring Christ down ; or who shall go beyond the sea, to 
bring him near. For the word is nigh thee, in thy 
mouth and in thy heart, that thou shouldst do it." In 
your own heart, in the simplest convictions of right 
and wrong, are the teachings that you want. This ? 
says the Apostle, " is the word of salvation which we 
preach ; that if thou wilt believe in thy heart, and 
confess with thy tongue that Jesus is the Christ, thou 
shalt be saved." That is, if thou wilt have a loving 
faith in Jesus Christ as thy Guide, Example and Sa- 
viour, and carry that faith into open action, and en- 
deavour to follow him, thou shalt be saved. In one 
word, if thou wilt be like Christ, if thou wilt imbibe 
his spirit and imitate his excellence, thou shalt be hap- 
py ; thou shalt be blessed ; blessed and happy forever. 
But the spirit, the loveliness of Christ, is no mystic 
secret. It is known and read of all men. It requires 
no mysterious initiation to instruct you in it. I do not 
object, of course, to seeking for light, or to seeking aid 
from men, from the wise and experienced ; but I do 
object to your seeking from them any initial or myste- 



364 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



rious knowledge of what religion is. Let you stand, 
alone, upon a desolate inland, with the Gospel in your 
hands ; and then and there, do thou read that sacred 
page, and pray over it, and strive patiently to bring 
your heart into accordance with it ; to bring what is 
already in you, your love and trust, up to conformity 
-with it ; and you are in the way of salvation. 

Oh ! sad and lamentable perversion ; that the great- 
est good in the universe, the very end of our being, the 
very point of all sublime human attainment, the very 
object for which rational and spiritual faculties were 
given us, should be a mystery ; that the very light by 
which we must walk, must be utter darkness, and that 
all we can do is, to put out our hand and grope about 
in that darkness ; that the very salvation, in which all 
the welfare of our souls is bound up, should be a dark 
enigma, and that all we can do is to hope that we 
shall some time or other know what it is. No, says 
the Apostle, " the world is nigh thee, in thy mouth and 
in thy heart that thou shouldst do it ; that is the sal- 
vation which we preach." 



XXIII, 



ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS, 
AND A GOOD LIFE. 

IF A MAN SAY, I LOVE GOD, AND HATETH HIS BROTHER, HE IS A LIAR ] FOR 
HE THAT LOVETH NOT HIS BROTHER WHOM HE HATH SEEN, HOW CAN HE 
LOVE GOD WHOM HE HATH NOT SEEN 1 — 1 John iv. 20, 

From these words I propose to take up again the 
subject of my last discourse. I have shown, that 
saving virtue, or whatever it be that is to save men, is 
commonly regarded, not as the increase or strengthen- 
ing of any principle that is already in them, but as the 
implantation in them of a principle entirely new and 
before unknown. I have endeavoured to make this 
apparent, by a statement in several forms of the actual 
views that prevail of religion and of obtaining reli- 
gion. I have shown, that with regard to religion or 
grace in the heart, the common feeling undoubtedly 
is, that it is a mystery, a thing which the people do 
not comprehend, and which they never expect to 
comprehend but by the experience of regeneration. 

I may now observe, in addition, that all this clearly 
follows from the doctrine of total depravity. This 
doctrine asserts that in our natural humanity there is 
not one particle of true religion or of saving virtue. 
Of course, human nature knows nothing about it. 
The only way in which we can come at the know- 
ledge of moral qualities, is by feeling them in our- 
selves. This is an unquestioned truth in philosophy. 
31* 



366 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



If we have no feeling of rectitude or of religion, we 
can have no knowledge of it. It follows, therefore, 
from the doctrine of universal and total depravity, 
that to the mass of men, religion, as an inward princi- 
ple, must be a mystery, an enigma, a thing altogether 
incomprehensible. 

This position — held by many Christians, but reject- 
ed by not a few, and presenting, in my opinion, the 
most momentous point of controversy in the Christian 
world — I have proposed to discuss with a freedom and 
seriousness proportioned to its immense importance. 

With this view, I proposed to consider its bearings on 
the estimate and treatment of religion, the culture of 
religion, and its essential vitality and power. 

The first of these subjects I have already examined, 
and I now proceed to the second. 

The next topic then, of which I was to speak, is re- 
ligious culture, or what is commonly called growth in 
grace. I cannot dwell much upon this subject ; but I 
must not pass it by entirely. 

A mystery, a mystic secret in the heart, cannot be 
cultivated. A peculiar emotion, unlike all well-known 
and clearly defined emotions of goodness or veneration, 
cannot be cultivated. It may be revived from time to 
time ; it may be kept alive in the heart by certain pro- 
cesses, and they are likely to be very mechanical pro- 
cesses ; the heart, like an electric jar, may ever and 
anon be charged anew with the secret power ; but to 
such an idea of religion, cultivation is a word that 
does, in no sense, properly apply. To grow daily in 
kindness and gentleness, to be more and more true, 
honest, pure and conscientious, to cultivate a feeling 
of resignation to the Divine will and a sense of the 
Divine presence ; all this is intelligible. But in pro- 
portion as the other idea of religion prevails, culture is 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 367 

out of the question. And on this principle, I am per- 
suaded, you will find many to say, that the hour of 
their conversion, the hour when they received that 
secret and mysterious grace into their hearts, was the 
brightest hour of their religious experience. Look 
then at the religious progress of such an one. I do 
not say that all converts are such ; but suppose any 
one to be possessed with this idea of religion as alto- 
gether an imparted grace ; and how naturally will his 
chief effort be, to keep that grace alive within him ! 
And where then is culture ? And what will be his 
progress ? Will he be found to have been growing 
more generous and gentle, more candid and modest, 
more disinterested and self-denying, more devoted to 
good works, and more filled with the good spirit of 
God ? Will those who know him best, thus take 
knowledge of him that he has been with Jesus, and 
say of him, " he was very irascible and self-willed, 
twenty years ago, but now he is very gentle and 
patient ; he was very selfish, but now he is very gen- 
erous and self-forgetting ; very close and penurious, 
but now he is very liberal and charitable ; very restless 
and impatient, but now T he is calm and seems to have 
a deep and immovable foundation of happiness and 
peace ; very proud and self-sufficient, but now it seems 
as if God and Heaven were in all his thoughts, and 
were all his support and resource." I hope that this 
change of character does take place in some converts ; 
I would that it did in many ; but I must say, that in 
so far as a certain idea of conversion prevails, the idea 
of a new and mysterious grace infused into the soul, 
it is altogether unfavourable to such a progress. 

And yet so far has this idea infected all the religion 
of our times, that Christianity seems nowhere to be 
that school of vigorous improvement which it was de- 



368 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



signed to be. Religion, if it is anything befitting our 
nature, is the very sphere of progress. All its means, 
ordinances and institutions have this in view, as their 
very end. But surely it is very obvious and very la- 
mentable to observe, how much religious observance 
and effort there is, which goes entirely to waste, which 
does not advance the character at all. Think of our 
churches, our preaching, our Sabbaths ; how little do 
they avail to make us better? How little do they seem 
to be thought of as seasons, means, schools of im- 
provement ! Must we not suspect that there is some 
error at the bottom of all this ? xlnd now suppose that 
men have got the notion that that something which is 
to prepare them for heaven, is something entirely dif- 
ferent from charity, honesty, disinterestedness, truth, 
self-government, and the kindly love of one another; 
and would not this be the very notion to work that 
fatal mischief, the very notion to disarm conscience 
and rational conversion of all their power ? 

You will recollect that, some time since, a national 
ship belonging to the Imaum of Muscat, visited our 
shores. Its officers, who I believe were intelligent men, 
freely mingled with our citizens, and saw something 
of society among us. And what do you think was 
their testimony concerning us ? On the point now be- 
fore us, it was this : They said that there is no reli- 
gion among us. And what now, you will ask, was 
their own idea of religion ? I answer, it was anala- 
gous to the very idea which I am controverting in this 
discourse. Religion with them was not the general 
improvement of the character — nothing of the kind ; 
but a certain strictness, a certain devoutness, a parti- 
cular way of attending to religion. Wherever these 
persons were found, at whatever feast or entertainment 
provided for them, when the hour of prayer prescribed 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



369 



for Mussulmens arrived, they courteously desired leave 
to retire to some private apartment, to engage in the 
prescribed devotions. They found not these things 
among us, and they said, " there is no religion in 
America." But do you believe that these Arabian fol- 
lowers of the prophet, were better men than the Chris- 
tian people upon whom they passed this judgment ? 
No ; you say, without denying their sincerity, that 
they had wrapped up all religion in certain peculiari- 
ties ; and you deny, and very justly deny, that this 
view of religion is either just or useful. You say, on 
the contrary, that it is very dangerous ; that it is un- 
friendly to the true improvement of character ; that 
according to this way of thinking, a man may be a 
very good Mussulman and a very bad man. And this 
is precisely what I say of that idea of religion among 
ourselves which wraps it up in peculiarity ; which 
finds its essence in certain beliefs, or in certain experi- 
ences, that are quite severed from general goodness and 
virtue. And I say, too, that according to this theory, 
a man may be a very good Christian, and yet a very 
bad man ; may consider himself pious, when he is not 
even a humane man ; not generous, nor just, nor candid, 
nor modest, nor forbearing, nor kind ; in short, that he 
may be a man on whom falls that condemnation which 
the Apostle pronounces on him who says, u I love God, 
and hateth his brother." 

But now it may be said, that the doctrine which I 
have delivered, is a very dangerous doctrine. £t To tell 
a man," it may be said, " that there is some good in 
him on which he is to build ; that religion consists es- 
sentially in the culture of what is already within him ; 
that there are natural emotions of piety and goodness 
in him which he is to cultivate into a habit and a char- 
acter ; will not all this minister to self-complacency, 



370 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



sloth, negligence and procrastination ? Will not the 
man say. well, I have some good in me, and I only 
need a little more, and I can attend to that, any time. 
I need not trouble myself : events perhaps will improve 
my character : and all will be well without much ef- 
fort or concern on my part. And especially. I need not 
go through this dreadful paroxysm of a conversion : I 
have nothing to do but to improve." 

I miffht answer, that it is no new thins: for a s^ood 
and true doctrine to be abused. I do not know but it 
is abused by some among us. Indeed I fear that it is. 
Let me proceed at once, then, to guard against this 
abuse ; and to show, as I have promised, that the doc- 
trine which I advocate is one of essential vitality and 
power in religion. 

Let us illustrate this by one or two comparisons. 
You wish to teach some man a science. Would you 
think it likely to awaken his zeal and earnestness, to 
begin by telling him, not only that he knows nothing 
about the science in question, but that he has no na- 
tural capacity for understanding it ; that he l\as no 
elements in him of that knowledge in which you wish 
to instruct him : but that he must first have some 
special and supernatural initiation from heaven into 
that knowledge, and then he may advance ; that till 
this is done, nothing is done, and that when this is 
done, all is done ; all, that is to say, that is essential 
to his character as a man of science, all that is neces- 
sary to prepare him for a successful examination ? 
Would it further your object to instruct him in this 
way? You wish to teach music to your pupil. You 
wish to arouse him to attend, and to labour for ac- 
complishment. Would it be well, to tell him that he 
has no musical ear, and that he can do nothing till 
this is given him ? You desire to train a youth to 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 371 



high physical accomplishment, to the exercises of the 
gymnasium or the riding school, to feats of strength 
or agility ; a branch of education that deserves more 
attention than it is receiving among us. Would you 
avow to your pupil, that there is one preliminary step 
to be gained before you could proceed at all : that he 
had no muscles, no aptitude ; and that, until these are 
given him, he can do nothing ? Alas ! when I look at 
the wonderful feats of some public performers, magi- 
cians as they are called, and as they seem to the people ; 
and when I know that all this is the result of careful 
and patient training, I cannot help saying, would 
Christians exercise themselves in this way, to what 
might they not attain ? " And these do it," says the 
Apostle, " for an earthly crown, but ye labour for a 
heavenly." Alas ! I am compelled to say again : 
every school of learning, seems to be more successful 
than the Christian school! And why? let me ask. 
Have not all other schools their difficulties to surmount 
as well as the Christian ? Why then is it that this is 
so lame and inefficient, but because there is some radi- 
cal error at the very foundation ? Let us see Chris- 
tians labouring, ay, and denying themselves, as men of 
science and art and skill do, and should we not witness 
some new result ? 

So I contend they would labour, or at the least, 
would be far more likely to labour, if they were put in 
the right way and were impressed with the right con- 
victions. What is the way? What are the convic- 
tions ? What does our doctrine say to men ? What 
does it say to them with regard to conversion, to pro- 
gress, and to preparation for heaven ? 

With regard to conversion, it says, " you must begin 
the work of self culture ; resolutely and decidedly you 
must enter upon the Christian path. If that era of 



372 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



solemn determination has never come to you, then it 
must come, or you are a lost man. With a feeling as 
solemn, as profound, as absorbing, as ever possessed 
the heart of any convert to mysterious grace, you must 
begin. Me may think that the saving work is done 
upon him in an instant ; you must not think so. 
That is all an error proceeding from a false interpreta- 
tion of certain figurative language of Scripture ; such 
as " new birth," " new creation" — figurative phrases 
which apply to the soul, only so far as the soul's na- 
ture will admit ; and it does not admit of an instant's 
experience being the preparation for heaven. He who 
has received this instantaneous communication, may 
think that in that moment he has got a grace, a some- 
thing—a something like a pass- word to heaven ; but 
you, if you will have any reason in your religion, must 
not think so. If you think at all, you cannot think so. 
If you imagine, you may imagine what you will. 
And truly, it is no moderate stretch of imagination that 
is here supposed. For if an instant's experience is 
enough to prepare the soul for heaven, I must wonder 
why a life was given for it. No, in one moment we 
can only begin. But that beginning must neverthe- 
less be made. What is never begun, is never done. 
On that great resolve, rests the burden of all human 
hope. On that great bond is set the seal of eternity. 
If we have never made that bond with our souls to be 
true and pure ; if we have never taken up that resolve, 
I see not how we can be Christians. If all our im- 
pulses were good, we might yield ourselves up to them. 
If there were no temptations, we should need no pur- 
pose. If there were a tide in the ocean of life that set 
right towards the desired haven, we might cast our- 
selves upon it and let it bear us at its will. But what 
would you expect, if a ship were loosened from the 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 373 

wharf, and without any course set, or any purpose to 
make a voyage, it were to take such fate as the winds 
and waves might send it ? You know what its fate 
would be ; to founder amidst the seas or to be wrecked 
on the shore ; it would reach no haven. And so upon 
the great deep of life, a moral voyage is to be made ; 
amidst winds and waves of passion, and through 
clouds and storms of temptation and difficulty, the 
course must be held ; and it will not be held, if it is 
not firmly set. Certainly, no man will make the 
voyage, unless he is determined to make it. How 
many launch forth upon the ocean of life without any 
such determination ; and their ship is swayed this way 
and that way by unseen currents, and is carried far 
astray by smooth tides and softly breathing winds ; but 
surely, unless a time comes, when the thoughtless 
mariner arouses himself, and directs his course and 
spreads his sa#ls for the haven, he will never reach it ! 

I must lay this emphatic stress upon beginning ; and 
I would that it might be a point of personal inquiry. 
I will use no intrusive liberty with your thoughts ; but 
I would say, have you begun? Have you resolved? 
for there is nothing on earth so much requiring a re- 
solve. Let not this matter then, be wrapped in mys- 
tery. In clear reality, let it stand before us ; in close 
contact, let it come to us. There is something wrong, 
of which the soul is conscious. The resolve required 
is this ; to do it no more. There is some secret indul- 
gence, some bosom sin. The resolve is, to tear that 
sin from the bosom, though it be dear as a right hand 
or a right eye. Some duty, or course of duties, is 
neglected ; the resolve is to set about it, this day, this 
hour. In short, the resolve is, a great, strong, sub- 
stantial purpose to do right in all things ; it is to set 
up the standard of duty as that beneath which we will 
32 



374 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



walk all our life through ; to give our hearts without 
any reserve to God. to truth and sanctity and goodness. 

This is what our doctrine says in regard to conver- 
sion. And now what does it say. on the subject of 
progress ? Does the message which it delivers, minis- 
ter to sloth, negligence, or procrastination ? What 
does it say ? Your life's work is growth in goodness 
and piety. It is a daily work, or it is no work at all. 
Every day you must advance. Practical religion is 
self-culture. God has given you a natural piety, and 
a natural benevolence, as he has given you a natural 
reason. With one as with the other, your business is 
culture. The seed is in you. as the seed of the com- 
ing harvest is in the soil. Every thing depends on cul- 
ture. Does it discourage the industry of the husband- 
man to tell him that the seed is provided, and planted 
in the earth ; that there is a germ that will grow if he 
will take care of it ? Nay. that is th^ very reason 
why he will work. Or does he refuse to work, because 
it is necessary that God's sun and air quicken the soil ? 
And why any more that God's spirit must shine and 
breathe upon his soul J 

In this rational and generous self-culture, is the se- 
cret of spiritual strength. There is nothing which 
most men so much feel as the want of vitality and 
earnestness in their religion. Their talk about it is 
dull and mournful ; their prayers are cold and reluc- 
tant : their interest is languid, their Sabbaths and their 
religious meetings in conference-rooms and school- 
houses, are heavy and sluggish ! And why is all this ? 
It is. provided they are sincere, because their views of 
religion are irrational, mystical, essentially uninterest- 
ing : because the thing in question, is severed from 
the living fountains of all true emotion. Let me state 
it to you thus. You have a friend, a dear and lovely 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 375 

friend ; and towards that being your affections are not 
dull and sluggish. But why is that friend dear and 
lovely? Because generous and noble-hearted, kind 
and gentle, full of disinterestedness and purity and 
truth ? Then I tell you that your friendship is a part 
of religion. It is of the same nature as religion. It 
is no other than a portion of the beauty of the Divinity 
that is shed forth in the heart of your friend. Again, 
you have an enthusiasm for all that is morally sublime 
and beautiful. The patriot that dies for his country ; 
the martyr that calmly goes to the stake, when one 
word, one little word uttered, will give him life and 
fortune, and splendour, and he will not speak that false 
word ; the patient and heroic sufferer amidst pain and 
calamity ; the great sufferer when he breathed the 
prayer, Father, forgive them ; these, win admiration, 
draw tears from you perhaps, as you think of them. 
And again, I tell you that this is a part of religion. 
Once more, you have an interest in this matter. Surely 
you would be happy. Uneasiness, destitution, self- 
inflicted pain are hard to bear. But was ever a soul, 
full of the love of God, full of kindness and gentle- 
ness, full of serenity and trust ; was ever such a soul 
essentially unhappy? How then can fainting and 
famishing creatures, gather in converse around this 
fountain of all healing and comfort, and not be thril- 
led with inexpressible emotion ? Let me suggest one 
more thought. There is one great Being who is the 
first and chiefest object of religion — God ! And God 
is every where. Can there be indifference where it is 
felt that God is ? And he is every where. In the 
crowded meeting, in thy lonely and retired walk, in 
the ever lovely, holy and beautiful nature that is spread 
around you, in the silent and star-lit dome of heaven, 
and beneath your humble roof, in all that fills it with 



376 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION". 



comfort and joy and hope. ay. or touches it with disci- 
plinary sorrow, in all. God is : the nearest, the holiest ; 
the greatest, the kindest of beings ; and can indiffer- 
ence live in that sublime and blessed presence 7 

Now what is religion 3 It is not merely to feel all 
this, at certain times and seasons, but it is to make i; 
the reigning habit of our minds. To feel it. is com- 
paratively easy ; to form it into the very structure of 
our souls, is quite another thing. I cannot very well 
understand how any man should want the feeling : 
but I can very well understand, how he should want 
the character. For this it is precisely, that is the 
greatest and rarest of all human attainments. This 
it is. to have Christ formed within us. the hope of glory. 
Jesus, the blessed Master, lived that perfect life. In 
him each good affection of the humanity, had its full- 
ness, its permanence, its perfection. How reverend, 
how holy, how dear, how soul-entrancing, is that in- 
carnate loveliness ; God in him, God with us : the 
brightness of the Father's glory and the express image 
of his person ! Oh ! could we be like him ! all our un- 
governed agitations, all our vain longings, all our dis- 
tracting passions, all our needless griefs and pains, 
would die away from us : and we should be freed from 
the heavy, heavy burden of our sins ! I almost fear. 
my friends, so to express myself ; lest it should be con- 
strued into the hackneyed and whining lamentation 
of the pulpit, and should win no respect, no sympathy 
with you. No. it is with a manly grief, with an in- 
dignant sorrow, and shame, that every one of us should 
lament, that he has not more unreservedly followed 
the great and glorious Master ! 

And let me add, that this is no visionary nor imprac- 
ticable undertaking. It is what we all can do. with 
God's help, if we will. B is what is bound upon us, 



IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 377 



by the simplest perceptions of rectitude in our own souls, 
bound upon us by the very feelings of conscience and 
obligation which God has implanted within us. 

Finally, it is what we must do, if we would attain 
to happiness here or hereafter. The hours are stealing 
on, when the veil of eternity shall part its awful folds, 
and the great and dread hereafter shall receive us. 
Solemn will be that hour ! Lightly do we hear of its 
daily coming to one and another round us now ; little 
do we think of what it was to them ; but so will not 
be its coming — with lightness or with little thought — 
so will not be its coming to us. The gathering and 
swelling thoughts of that hour, no one can know but 
he who has felt it drawing nigh. Earth recedes ; 
and earth's ambition, gain, pleasure, vanity, shrink 
to nothing ; and one thought spreads all around 
and fills the expanding horizon of eternity — am I 
ready ? Have I lived so, as to meet this hour ? And 
believe me, in no court of human theology, must that 
question be answered. No imagin aiw robe of another's 
righteousness — I speak not now of God's mercy in 
Christ ; that, we may be sure, will be all that mercy 
consistently can be; no mystic grace claiming superior- 
ity to all deeds of mercy and truth ; no narrow, techni- 
cal hope of salvation garnered up in the heart, will 
avail us there ; but the all-deciding question will be — 
what were we ? and what have we done ? "What 
were we, in the whole breadth and length of all our 
good or all our bad affections ? That awful question 
we must answer for ourselves. No one shall be there 
to answer for us. No answer shall be given in there, 
but that which comes from every day and hour of 
our lives. For there is not a day nor an hour of our 
lives, but it contributes to make us better or worse : it 
has borne the stamp of our culture or carelessness, of 
32* 



378 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



our fidelity or our neglect. And that stamp, which 
our life's experience sets upon our character, is — I 
speak not my own word, but God's word — that stamp 
is the very seal of retribution. 

Does this seem, my friends, but a sad and stern con- 
clusion of the matter ; not encouraging to our hopes, 
nor accordant with the mercy of the Gospel ? The 
Gospel ? Is it a system of evasions and subterfuges 
and palliatives, to ease off the strict demand of holiness ? 
No, let theology boast of such devices, and tell men 
that as they have sowed so shall they not reap ; but 
believe me, the Gospel is the last thing to break the 
everlasting bond that connects happiness with good- 
ness, with purity. And who would have it otherwise ? 
Who would be happy, but on condition of being good, 
and in proportion as he is good? What true man 
asks, that over his corrupt and guilty heart, while such, 
may be poured a flood of perfect bliss ? Our nature 
may be fallen and low ; but that flood would sweep 
away the last vestige of all its honour and worth. 
God never created a thing so vile as that would be. 
No, it is a noble being that he has given us, though, 
alas ! it be marred and degraded ; and upon the 
eternal laws of that being, must we build up our wel- 
fare. It is a glorious privilege so to do ; to do what 
the noble Apostle spoke of as his own law and hope, 
when he said, — and be assured, that must be our law 
and hope — " I have fought a good fight, I have finished 
my course, I have kept the faith ; henceforth there is 
laid up for me a crown, which the Lord, the righteous 
Judge, will give me in that day ; and not to me only, 
but to all who love his appearing." 



XXIV. 



SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 

JESUS ANSWERED THEM AND SAID, VERILY, VERILY I SAY UNTO YOU, YE SEEK 
ME, NOT BECAUSE YE SAW THE MIRACLES; BUT BECAUSE YE DID EAT OF 
THE LOAVES AND WERE FILLED. LABOUR NOT FOR THE MEAT WHICH 
PERISHETH, BUT FOR THAT MEAT WHICH ENDURETH UNTO ETERNAL LIFE. — 

John vi. 26, 27. 

The contrast here set forth, is between a worldly 
mind and a spiritual mind : and so very marked and 
striking is it, that the fact upon which it is based 
may seem to be altogether extraordinary, a solitary in- 
stance of Jewish stupidity, and not applicable to any 
other people, or any after times. Our Saviour avers 
that the multitude who followed him, on a certain oc- 
casion, did so, not because they saw those astonishing 
miracles, that gave witness to his spiritual mission ; 
but simply, because they did eat of the loaves, and 
were filled. Yet, strange as it may seem, the same 
great moral error, I believe, still exists ; the same pre- 
ference of sensual to spiritual good, though the specific 
exemplification of the principle can no longer be ex- 
hibited among men. But let us attend to our Saviour's 
exhortation. " Labour not for the meat that perisheth, 
but for that meat which end ureth unto eternal life.' 5 
The word labour, refers to the business of life. It is 
as if our Saviour had said, work, toil, care, provide, 
for the soul. And it is in this sense of the word, as 
well as in the whole tenor of the passage, that I find 
the leading object of my present discourse : which is 



3S0 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION 



to show that spiritual interests, the interests of the 
mind and heart, the interests of reason and conscience, 
however neglected, however forgotten amidst the pur- 
suit of sensual and worldly objects, are nevertheless 
real and supreme : that they are not visionary because 
spiritual ; but that they are most substantial and 
weighty interests, and most truly deserving of that 
earnest attention, that laborious exertion, which is 
usually given to worldly interests. 

So does not the world regard them, any more than 
did the Jews of old. It is written that the " children of 
this world are wiser in their generation" — i. e. after their 
manner wiser, " than the children of light." But the 
children of this world, not content with this concession, 
are apt to think that they are every way wiser. And 
the special ground of this assumption, though they 
may not be aware of it, is, I believe, the notion which 
they entertain that they are dealing with real and sub- 
stantial interests. Religious men, they conceive, are 
occupied with matters which are vague and visionary, 
and which scarcely have any real existence. A great 
property is something fixed and tangible, sure and 
substantial. But a certain view of religion, a certain 
state of mind, is a thing of shadow, an abstraction 
vanishing into nothing. The worldly-wise man admits 
that it may be well enough for some people ; at any 
rate, he will not quarrel with it ; he does not think it 
worth his troubling himself about it : his aim, his plan, 
his course, is a different one, and — the implication is — ■ 
a wiser one. 

Yes. the very wisdom implied in religion is fre- 
quently accounted to be wisdom of but an humble order ; 
the wisdom of dulness or of superstitious fancy or 
fear ; or at most, a very scholastic, abstract, useless 
wisdom. And the very homage which is usually paid 



SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 381 

to religion, the hackneyed acknowledgment that it is 
very well, very proper, a very good thing ; or the more 
solemn, if not more dull confession of u the great im- 
portance of religion and more especially the demure 
and mechanical manner in which these things are said, 
proclaim as plainly as any thing can, that it has not 
yet become a living interest in the hearts of men. It 
has never, in fact, taken its proper place among human 
concerns. I am afraid it must be said, that with most 
men, the epithet most naturally attaching itself to reli- 
gion, to religious services, to prayers, to books of ser- 
mons, is the epithet, dull. And it is well known, as a 
fact, very illustrative of this state of mind, that for a 
long time, parents in this country were wont to single 
out and destine for the ministry of religion, the dullest 
of their sons. 

I know of nothing more important, therefore, than to 
show that religion takes its place among objects that 
are of actual concern to men and to all men ; that its 
interests are not only of the most momentous, but of 
the most practical character ; that the wisdom that 
winneth souls, the religion that takes care for them, 
is the most useful, the most reasonable of all wisdom 
and discipline. It is of the care of the soul, then, that 
I would speak ; of its wisdom, of its reasonableness, of 
its actual interest to the common sense and welfare of 
men. 

The ministry of the Gospel is often denominated 
the care of souls ; and I consider this language, rightly 
explained, as conveying a very comprehensive and in- 
teresting description of the office. It is the care of 
souls. This is its whole design, and ought to be its 
whole direction, impulse, strength, and consolation. 
And this, too, if it were, justly felt, would impart an in- 
terest, an expansion, a steady energy, a constant 



382 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



growth, and a final and full enlargement to the mind 
of the Christian teacher, not surpassed, certainly, in 
any other profession or pursuit in life. Whether the 
sacred office has had this effect to as great an extent 
as other professions, is, to the Clergy at least, a very 
serious question. I am obliged to doubt whether it 
has. Certainly, to say that its spirit has been charac- 
terized by as much natural warmth and hearty earn- 
estness as that of other pursuit ; that its eloquence 
has been as free and powerful as that of the Senate 
and the Bar ; that its literature has been as rich as 
that of poetry or even of fiction ; this is more than I 
dare aver. 

But not to dwell on this question ; it is to my pre- 
sent purpose to observe that the very point, from which 
this want of a vivid perception of religious objects has 
arisen, is the very point from which help must come. 
Men have not perceived the interests of the mind and 
heart to be the realities that they are. Here is the 
evil ; and here we must find the remedy. Let the 
moral states, experiences, feelings of the soul, become 
but as interesting as the issue of a lawsuit, the success 
of business, or the result of any worldly enterprize, 
and there would be no difficulty ; there would be no 
complaint of dullness, either from our own bosoms or 
from the lips of others. Strip off from the inward soul 
those many folds and coverings — the forms and fashions 
of life, the robes of ambition, the silken garments of 
luxury, the fair array of competence and comfort, and 
the fair semblances of comfort and happiness — strip 
the mind naked and bare to the view ; and unfold 
those workings within, where feelings and principles 
make men happy or miserable ; and we should no more 
have such a thing as religious indifference in the world ! 
Sin there might be, outbreaking passion, outrageous 



SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 383 

vice, but apathy there could not be. It would not re- 
quire a sentiment of rectitude even ; it would hardly 
need, that a man should have any religion at all, to 
feel an interest in things so vital to his welfare. Why 
do men care as they do for worldly things ? Is it not 
because they expect happiness, or think to ward off 
misery with them ? Only let them be convinced then, 
that happiness and misery depend much more upon 
the principles and affections of their own minds, and 
would they not transfer the greater portion of their in- 
terest, to those principles and affections ? Would it 
not result from a kind of mental necessity, like that 
which obliges the artisan to look to the mainspring of 
his machinery? Add, then, to this distinct perception 
of the real sources of happiness, an ardent benevolence, 
an earnest desire for men's welfare ; and from this 
union would spring that spiritual zeal, that ardour in 
the concerns of religion and benevolence, of which so 
much is said, so little is felt ; and of which the defi- 
ciency is so much lamented. I am willing to make 
allowance for constitutional differences of tempera- 
ment, and indeed for many difficulties ; but still I 
maintain that there is enough in the power of religious 
truths and affections to overcome all obstacles. I do 
maintain, that if the objects of religion were perceived 
to be what they are, and were felt as they ought to be, 
and as every man is capable of feeling them, we 
should no more have such things among us, as dull 
sermons or dull books of piety, or dull conferences on 
religion, than dull conversations on the exchange or 
dull pleadings at the bar, or even than dull communi- 
cations of slander by the fireside. 

I have thus far been engaged with stating the ob- 
vious utility and certain efficacy of the right conviction 
on this subject. But I have done it as preliminary 



354 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



to a closer argument for tbe right conviction. Let us. 
then, enter more fully upon consideration of the great 
spiritual interest. Let us. my brethren, enter some- 
what at large, into the consideration of religion as an 
interest ; and of the place which it occupies among 
human interests. Among the cares of life, let us con- 
sider the care of the soul. For it is certain that the 
interior, the spiritual being, has as yet obtained no just 
recognition, in the maxims of this world. 

The mind indeed, if we would but understand it. is 
the great central power, in the movements of this 
world's affairs. All the scenes of this life, from the 
busiest to the most quiet, from the gravest to the gayest, 
are the varied developments of that same mind. The 
world is spread out as a theatre for one great action, 
the action of a mind : and it is so to be regarded, 
whether as a sphere of trial or of suffering, of enjoy- 
ment or of discipline, of private interest or of public 
history. Life, with all its cares and pursuits, with ail 
its aspects of the superficial, the frivolous and the gross, 
is but the experience of a mind. Life. I say — dull, 
plodding, weary life, as many call it. is. after all. a spir- 
itual scene ; and this is the description of it that is 
of the deepest import to us. 

I know and repeat, that the appearances of things, 
to many at least, are widely different from this repre- 
sentation. I am not ignorant of the prevailing and 
wordly views of this subject. There are some. I know, 
who look upon this life as a scene not of spiritual in- 
terests, but of worldly pleasures. The gratifications 
of sense, the opportunities of indulgence, the array in 
which fashion clothes its votaries, the splendour of 
entertainments, the fascinations of amusement, absorb 
them ; or absorb, at least, all the admiration they feel 
for the scene of this life. Lpon others, again. I know 



SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 385 

that the cloud of affliction descends ; and it seems to 
them to come down visibly. Evil and trouble are to 
them, mainly things of condition and circumstance. 
They are thinking chiefly of this thing as unfortunate, 
and of that, as sad ; and they forget that intrinsic 
character of the mind which lends the darkest hue, 
and which might give an aspect of more than earthly 
brightness, to all their sufferings. And then again, to 
the eyes of others, toil presents itself ; with rigid 
sinews and strong arm, indeed, but weary too — ■ 
weary, worn down with fatigue, and perhaps discon- 
solate in spirit. And to its earthly-minded victims — ■ 
for victims they are with that mind — it seems. I know, 
as if this world were made but to work in ; and as if 
death, instead of being the grand entrance to immor- 
tality, were sufficiently commended to them, as a rest 
and a release. And last of all, gain, the master pur- 
suit of all, since it ministers to all other pursuits, urges 
its objects upon our attention. There are those, I 
know, to whom this world — world of spiritual proba- 
tion and immortal hope as it is. — is but one great 
market-place ; a place for buying and selling and get- 
ting profit ; a place in which to hoard treasures, to 
build houses, to enjoy competence, or to lavish wealth. 

And these things, I know, are called interests. The 
matters of religion are instructions ; ay, and excellent 
instructions ; for men can garnish with epithets of 
eulogium, the objects on which they are to bestow 
nothing but praise. And such, alas ! are, too often, 
the matters of religion ; they are excellent instruc- 
tions, glorious doctrines, solemn ordinances, important 
duties; but to the mass of mankind, they are not yet 
interests. That brief word, with no epithet, with no 
pomp of language about it, expresses more, far more, 
than most men ever really attribute to religion, and 
33 



386 



THE NATURE OF RELIGIOX. 



the concerns of the soul. Nay 3 and the interest that 
is felt in religion — I have spoken of dalness — but the 
interest that is felt in religion, is often of a very doubt- 
ful, superficial, unreal character. Discourses upon re- 
ligion, excite a kind of interest, and sometimes it might 
seem, as if that interest were strong. And strong of its 
kind, it may be. But of what kind is it ? How deep, 
how efficient is it ? How many are there, that would 
forego the chance of a good mercantile speculation, for 
the moral effect of the most admirable sermon that ever 
was preached ? Oh ! no : then it is a different thing. 
Religion is a good thing by the by ; it is a pleasant 
thing for entertainment ; it is a glorious thing to muse 
and meditate upjn ; but bring it into competition or 
comparison with real interests, and then, to many, it at 
once becomes something subtile, spiritual, invisible, 
imperceptible : it weighs nothing, it counts nothing, it 
will sell for nothing, and in thousands of scenes, in 
thousands of dwelling's in this world, it is held to be 
good for nothing ! This statement. God knoweth, is 
made with no lightness of spirit, though it had almost 
carried me, from the vividness of the contrast which it 
presents, to lightness of speech. How sad and lament- 
able is it, that beings whose soul is their chief distinc- 
tion, should imagine that the things which most con- 
cern them, are things of appearance ! I said, the 
vividness of the contrast ; yet in truth it has been but 
half exhibited. It seems like extravagance to say it, 
but I fear it is sober truth, that there are many whom 
the very belief, the acknowledged record of their im- 
mortality, has never interested half so deeply as the 
frailest leaf on which a bond or a note is written ; 
many whom no words of the Gospel ever aroused and 
delighted, and kindled to such a glow of pleasure, as 
a card of compliment, or a sentence of human eulo- 



SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 387 



gium ! Indeed, when we draw a line of division be- 
tween the worldly and spiritual, between the beings of 
the world and the beings of the soul, between crea- 
tures of the outside and creatures of the intellect and 
of immortality, how few will really be found among 
the elect, the chosen and faithful ! And how many 
who could scarcely suspect it, perhaps, would be found 
on the side of the world — would be found among those 
who in their pursuits and judgments, are more affect- 
ed by appearances than by realities ; who are more 
powerfully acted upon by outward possessions, than 
by inward qualities ; who, even in their loftiest sen- 
timents, their admiration of great and good men, have 
their enthusiasm full as much awakened by the esti- 
mation in which those men are held, as by their real 
merits. 

And when we consider all this, when we look upon 
the strife of human passions too, the zeal, the eager- 
ness, the rivalship, the noise and bustle, with which 
outward things are sought : the fear, the hope, the 
joy, the sorrow, the discontent, the pride of this world, 
all, to so great an extent fastening themselves upon 
what is visible and tangible ; it is not strange that 
many should come almost insensibly to feel as if they 
dwelt in a world of appearances ; and as if nothing 
were real and valuable but what is seen and temporal. 
It is not altogether strange, that the senses have 
spread a broad veil of delusion over the earth, and 
that the concerns of every man's mind and heart, 
have been covered up and kept out of sight, by a 
mass of forms and fashions, and of things called in- 
terests. 

And yet, notwithstanding all these aspects of things, 
I maintain, and I will show, that the real and main 
interest which concerns every man lies in the state of 



388 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



his own mind ; that habits are of far more consequence 
to him than possessions and treasures ; that affections, 
simple and invisible things though they be, are worth 
more to him, than rich dwellings, and broad lands, and 
coveted honours. I maintain, that no man is so world- 
ly, or covetous, or voluptuous — that no man is so busy, 
or ambitious, or frivolous, but this is true of him. Let 
him be religious or not religious ; let him be the merest 
slave of circumstances, the merest creature of vanity 
and compliment that ever existed ; and still it is true, 
and none the less true, that his welfare lies within. 
There are no scenes of engrossing business, tumultu- 
ous pleasure, hollow-hearted fashion, or utter folly, but 
the deepest principles of religion are concerned with 
them. Indeed, I look upon all these varied pursuits as 
the strugglings of the deeper mind, as the varied de- 
velopments of the one great desire of happiness. 
And he who forgets that deeper mind, and sees nothing, 
and thinks of nothing, but the visible scene, I hold to 
be as unwise as the man, who, entering upon the 
charge of one of our manufactories, should gaze upon 
the noisy and bustling apparatus above, should occupy 
himself with its varied movements, its swift and bright 
machinery and its beautiful fabrics, and forget the 
mighty wheel, that moves all from beneath. 

But let us pursue the argument. The mind, it will 
be recollected, is that which is happy or unhappy, not 
goods and fortunes ; not even the senses ; they are but 
the inlets of pleasure to the mind. But this, as it is a 
mere truism, though a decisive one in the case, is not 
the proposition which 1 am to maintain. Neither am 
I to argue on the other hand, that the mind is inde- 
pendent of circumstances ; that its situation, in regard 
to wealth or poverty, distinction or neglect, society or 
solitude, is a thing of no consequence. As well say 



SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 3S9 



that its relation to health or sickness is a thins of no 
consequence. But this I say and maintain, that what 
every man has chiefly at stake, lies in the mind ; that 
his excellence depends entirely upon that; that his 
happiness ordinarily depends more upon the mind it- 
self, upon its own state and character, than upon any 
outward condition : that those evils, with which the 
human race is afflicted, are mainly evils of the mind : 
and that the care of the soul, which religion enjoins, 
is the grand and only remedy for human wants and 
woes. 

The considerations which bear upon this estimate 
of the real and practical welfare of men, may be 
drawn from every sphere of human life and action : 
from every contemplation of mankind, whether in 
their condition, relations or attributes : from society, 
from God's providence, from human nature itself. 
Let us. then, in the first place consider society, in 
several respects : in a general view of the evils that 
disturb or afflict it ; in its intercourse : in its domestic 
scenes : in its religious institutions : and in its secular 
business and worldly condition. These topics will 
occupy the time that remains for our present medi- 
tation. 

It is the more desirable to give some latitude to this 
part of our illustration, because it is in social interests 
and competitions especially, that men are apt to be 
worldly ; i. e.. to be governed by considerations extrin- 
sic and foreign to the soul. The social man, indeed, 
is often worldly, while the same man. in retirement, is 
after his manner devout. 

What then are the evils in society at large? I an- 
swer, they are, mainly,, evils of the mind. Let us de- 
scend to particulars. Some, for instance, are depressed 
and irritated by neglect : and others are elated and in- 
33* 



390 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



jured by flattery. These are large classes of society 
around us ; and the first, T think, by far the largest 
class. Both are unfortunate ; both are wrong, proba- 
bly ; and not only so, but society is wrong for treating 
them in these ways ; and the wrong, the evil in every 
instance, lies in the mind. Some again want excite- 
ment, want an object ; and duty and religion would 
fill their hearts with constant peace, and with a pleni- 
tude of happy thoughts. Others want restraint, want 
the power to deny themselves, and want to know that 
such self-denial is blessed ; and true piety would teach 
them this lofty knowledge ; true piety would gently 
and strongly control all their passions. In short, en- 
nui and excess, intemperance, slander, variance, rival- 
ship, pride, and envy, — these are the miseries of soci- 
ety, and they are all miseries that exist in the mind. 
Where would our account end, if we were to enume- 
rate all the things that awaken our fears, in the pro- 
gress and movements of the social world around us? 
Good men differ, and reject each other's light and coun- 
tenance ; and bad men, alas ! agree but too well ; 
wise men dispute, and fools laugh ; the selfish grasp ; 
the ambitious strive ; the sensual indulge themselves ; 
and it seems, at times, as if the world were going 
surely, if not swiftly, to destruction ! And why ? 
Only, and always, and every where, because the mind 
is not right. Put holy truth in every false heart, instil 
a sacred piety into every worldly mind, and a blessed 
virtue into every fountain of corrupt desires ; and the 
anxieties of philanthropy might be hushed ; and the 
tears of benevolent prayer and faith might be dried 
up : and patriotism and piety might gaze upon the 
scene and the prospect with unmingled joy. Surely, 
then, the great interests of society are emphatically the 
interests of religion and virtue. 



SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 391 

Gather any circle of society to its evening assem- 
bly. And what is the evil there ? He must think 
but little, who imagines there is none. I confess that 
there are few scenes that more strongly dispose me to 
reflection, than this. I see great and signal advantages, 
fair and fascinating opportunities for happiness. The 
ordinary, or rather the ordinarily recognised evils of 
life, have no place in the throng of social entertain- 
ment. They are abroad indeed, in many a hovel and 
hospital, and by many a wayside ; but from those bril- 
liant and gay apartments they are, for the time, ex- 
cluded. The gathering is. of youth and lightness of 
heart and prosperous fortune. The manly brow flushed 
with the beauty of its early day, the fair form of out- 
ward loveliness, the refined understanding, the accom- 
plished manner, the glad parent's heart, and confiding 
filial love, and music aud feasting, are there ; and yet 
beneath many a soft raiment and many a silken fold, 
I know that hearts are beating, which are full of dis- 
quietude and pain. The selfishness of parental anxiety, 
the desire of admiration, the pride of success, the mor- 
tification of failure, the vanity that is flattered, the ill- 
concealed jealous}', the miserable affectation, the dis- 
trustful embarrassment, — that comprehensive dif- 
ficulty which proceeds to some extent indeed from the 
fault of the individual, but much more from the gen- 
eral fault of society, — these are the evils from which 
the gayest circles of the social world need to be reform- 
ed ; and these too, are evils in the mind. They are 
evils which nothing- but religion and virtue can ever 
correct. The remedy must be applied where the 
disease is, and that is to the soul. 

But now follow society to its homes. There is, in- 
deed, and eminently, the scene of our happiness or of 
our misery. And it is too plain to be insisted on, that 



392 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



domestic happiness depends ordinarily and chiefly 
upon domestic honour and fidelity ; upon disinterest- 
edness, generosity, kindness, forbearance ; and the vices 
opposite to these, are the evils that embitter the peace 
and joy of domestic life. Men in general are suffi- 
ciently sensible to this part of their welfare. Thou- 
sands all around us, are labouring by day and medi- 
tating by night, upon the means of building up in 
comfort and honour, the families, with whose fortunes 
and fate their own is identified. Here, then, if any 
where — here in these homes of our affection, are 
interests. And surely, I speak not to discourage a 
generous self-devotion to them, or a reasonable care 
of their worldly condition. But I say, that this condi- 
tion is not the main thing, though it is commonly 
made so. I say that there is something of more con- 
sequence to the happiness of a family, than the 
apartments it occupies, or the furniture that adorns 
them ; something of dearer and more vital concern- 
ment, than costly equipage or vast estates or coveted 
honours. I say, that if its members have any thing 
w 7 ithin them, that is worthy to be called a mind, their 
main interests are their thoughts and their virtues. 
Vague and shadowy things they may appear to some ; 
but let a man be ever so worldly, and this is true ; and 
it is a truth which he cannot help : and all the struggle 
of family ambition, and all the pride of its vaunted 
consequence and cherished luxury, will only the more 
demonstrate it to be true. 

Choose, then, what scene of social life you will ; and 
it can be shown beyond all reasonable doubt, that the 
main concern, the great interest there, is the state of 
the mind. 

What is it that makes dull and weary services at 
church ; if, alas ! we must admit that they sometimes 



SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 393 

are so. A living piety in the congregation, a fervent 
love of God, and truth, and goodness, would commu- 
nicate life, I had almost said, to the dullest service 
that ever passed in the house of God : and, if destitute 
of that piety, the preaching of an angel would awaken 
in us only a temporary enthusiasm. A right and holy 
feeling would make the house of God, the place for 
devout meditation, a place more profoundly, more 
keenly interesting, than the thronged mart, or the can- 
vassing hall, or the tribunal that is to pass judgment 
on a portion of our property. Do you say that the 
preacher is sometimes dull, and that is all the difficulty? 
No, it is not all the difficulty ; for the dullest haranguer 
that ever addressed an infuriated mob, when speaking 
their sentiments, is received with shouts of applause. 
Suppose that a company were assembled to consider 
and discuss some grand method to be proposed, for 
acquiring fortunes for themselves — some South-Sea 
scheme, or project for acquiring the mines of Potosi ; 
and suppose that some one should rise to speak to that 
company, who could not speak eloquently, nor in an 
interesting manner : grant all that ; but suppose this 
dull speaker could say something, could state some 
fact or consideration, to help on the great inquiry. 
Would the company say that they could not listen to 
him? Would the people say that they would not 
come to hear him again ? No, the speaker might be 
as awkward and prosaic as he pleased ; he might be 
some humble observer, some young engineer ; but he 
would have attentive and crowded auditories. A feel- 
ing in the hearers would supply all other deficiencies. 

Shall this be so in worldly affairs, and shall there 
be nothing like it in religious affairs ? Grant that the 
speaker on religion is not the most interesting ; grant 
that he is dull ; grant that his emotions are constitu- 



394 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



tionally less earnest than yours are ; yet I say, what 
business have you to come to church to be passive in 
the service, to be acted on, and not yourselves to act? 
And yet more, what warrant have you, to let your 
affections to your God depend on the infirmity of any 
mortal being? Is that awful presence that filleth the 
sanctuary, though no cloud of incense be there ; is the 
vital and never-dying interest which you have in your 
own mind ; is the wide scene of living mercies that 
surrounds you, and which you have come to meditate 
upon ; is it all indifferent to you, because one poor, 
erring mortal is cold and dead to it ? I do not ask 
you to say that he is not dull, if he is dull ; I do not 
ask you to say that he is interesting ; but I ask you to 
be interested in spite of him. His very dulness, if he 
is dull, ought to move you. If you cannot weep with 
him, you ought to weep for him. 

Besides, the weakest or the dullest man tells you 
truths of transcendent glory and power. He tells you 
that " God is love f and how might that truth, though 
he uttered not another word, or none but dull words ; 
how might that truth spread itself out into the most 
glorious and blessed contemplations ! Indeed, the 
simple truths are, after all, the great truths. Neither 
are they always best understood. The very readiness 
of assent is sometimes an obstacle to the fulness of 
the impression. Very simple matters, I am aware, are 
those to which I am venturing to call your attention, 
in this hour of our solemnities ; and yet do I believe, 
that if they were clearly perceived and felt among 
men at large, they would begin, from this moment, 
the regeneration of the world ! 

But pass now from the silent and holy sanctuary, to 
the bustling scene of this world's business and pursuit. 
" Here," the worldly man will say, " we have reality. 



SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 395 

Here, indeed, are interests. Here is something worth 
being concerned about." And yet even here do the 
interests of religion and virtue pursue him, and press 
themselves upon his attention. 

Look, for instance, at the condition of life, the pos- 
session or the want, of those blessings for which busi- 
ness is prosecuted. What is it that distresses the poor 
man, and makes poverty in the ordinary condition of 
it, the burden that it is ? It is not, in this country, — 
it is not usually, hunger, nor cold, nor nakedness. It 
is some artificial want, created- by the wrong state of 
society. It is something nearer yet to us, and yet 
more unnecessary. It is mortification, discontent, 
peevish complaining, or envy of a better condition ; 
and all these are evils of the mind. Again, what is it 
that troubles the rich man, or the man who is success- 
fully striving to be rich ? It is not poverty, certainly, 
nor is it exactly possession. It is occasional disap- 
pointment, it is continual anxiety, it is the extravagant 
desire of property, or worse than all, the vicious abuse 
of it; and all these too are evils of the mind. 

But let our worldly man, who will see nothing but 
the outside of things, who will value nothing but pos- 
pessions, take another view of his interest. What is 
it that cheats, circumvents, overreaches him ? It is dis- 
honesty. What disturbs, vexes, angers him ? It is 
some wrong from another, or something wrong in him- 
self. What steals his purse, or robs his person ? It is 
not some unfortunate mischance that has come across 
his path. It is a being in whom nothing worse resides, 
than fraud and violence. What robs him of that, 
which is dearer than property, his fair name among 
his fellows ? It is the poisonous breath of foul and 
accursed slander. And what is it, in fine, that threat- 
ens the security, order, peace and well-being of society 



396 



THE NATURE OF RELIGION. 



at large ; that threatens, if unrestrained, to deprive 
our estates, our comforts, our domestic enjoyments, our 
personal respectability and our whole social condition, 
of more than half their value ? It is the spirit of in- 
justice and wild misrule in the human breast ; it is 
political intrigue, or popular violence : it is the progress 
of corruption, intemperance, lasciviousness, the pro- 
gress of vice and sin, in all their forms. I know that 
these are very simple truths ; but if they are very 
simple and very certain, how is it that men are so 
worldly ? Put obligation out of the question ; how is 
it that they are not more sagacious and wary with 
regard to their interests ? How is it that the means 
of religion and virtue are so indifferent to many, in 
comparison with the means of acquiring property or 
office ? How is it that many unite and contribute so 
coldly and reluctantly for the support of government, 
learning, and Christian institutions, who so eagerly 
combine for the prosecution of moneyed speculations, 
and of party and worldly enterprises? How is it, I 
repeat ? Men desire happiness ; and a very clear 
argument may be set forth to show them where their 
happiness lies. And yet here is presented to you the 
broad fact — and with this fact I will close the present 
meditation ; that while men's welfare depends mainly 
on their own minds, they are actually and almost uni- 
versally seeking it in things without them ; that among 
the objects of actual desire and pursuit, affections and 
virtues, in the world's esteem, bear no comparison 
with possessions and honours ; nay, that men are every 
where and every day, sacrificing, ay, sacrificing affec- 
tions and virtues, sacrificing the dearest treasures of 
the soul, for what they call goods, and pleasures, and 
distinctions. 




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